


Bonds of Old

by cakeisnotpie



Series: Medieval Fantasy 'Vengers Cakeverse [1]
Category: Avengers (Comics), Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Supernatural, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Young Avengers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, BAMF Clint Barton, BAMF Phil Coulson, Bonding, Dragons, M/M, Mages, Magic, Monsters, Pirates, Ritual Sex, Sorcerers, bonded couples, chain mail sex, horseback sex, loki is a little shit, plus so much magic!, sweaty sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-18
Updated: 2014-02-08
Packaged: 2017-12-27 00:09:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 129,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/971922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakeisnotpie/pseuds/cakeisnotpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the Midlands, all is not well. The King is weak and under the spell of Prince Loki of Asgard. Darkness is creeping out of hiding and it's up to the Warlords and their Thanes to protect the kingdom. Thane Philip Coulson runs Lord Fury's holding, but he never expects to find himself married to Lord Clinton Barton as part of a plan to thwart Loki's yet unknown scheme. Now part of Lord Fury's knights, Clint has a ruined manor to restore and a new husband that just might be the answer to all his problems. Then there's the little details of Phil's hidden magical abilities and the growing bond between the two of them. Part 1 of the Medieval 'Vengers Cakeverse. More pairings to follow in their own stories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> always wanted to write an epic fantasy with a medieval setting. This started as a joke to write a romance novel with some armor porn and ... well ... the thing keeps getting bigger and bigger. Looks like it's going to be a series with story installments that focus on different pairings. With lots of armor porn.
> 
> I've taken lots of liberties with ages and background histories; just sit back and have fun!

After, there was little left to do but survive. The peoples dwindled down to few and fewer, huddled in their caves and places of safety, until finally they emerged, settling in the fertile land that remained in small, tight knit communities. Hamlets became villages and villages changed to towns; towns needed governing and those with skills and knowledge stepped forward. Dangers surrounded them – storms, harsh winters, wolves, petty jealousy – but they persevered, building a new life for themselves and their children.

But the fallout changed all, the people, the animals, and the land. The first to be born were the monsters of myth and legend that came from the depths of the earth, the bottom of the ocean, and the heights of the mountains. Dragons took to the skies, krakens harried the coasts, and misshapen creatures crept out of caverns. Worst of all were those who wore the form of men with naught but blackness in their souls, women who wove symbols with their fingers and called spells forth from their will alone. Black magic swept across the settled lands, and the worst of all were the Sorcerers, men and women of such power that they were no longer human, twisted and depraved in their desires. Those who resisted fell before the onslaught; those who surrendered lived in constant fear. It was the start of the First New Age, the Time of Darkness.

But magic is neither good nor evil, and so too did men with great strength emerge, brilliant women who could strategize, those who could heal, could build, could change, and could fly. Wizards and knights, archers and swordsmen, statesmen and spies, they faced the challenge and stood between the people and the shadows. Battle became the reality of life, the strongest leaders gathered the best and brightest around them, named them thanes, and thus were the Warlords born. People raised walls, moved inside them, and huddled behind the lines for the protection the Warlords could offer. In smaller holdings, firstborns still inherited, but as the Warlords grew in power, they began to choose their heirs from the children born with special talents, raised and trained to work together for the good of the land. From the Warlords came power of the King and to the King they owed their allegiance. Age-old traditions gave way in the face of need; prejudices fell away. There was no time to think of color of skin or shape of bodies or choice of lovers. There was only the struggle to stay alive.

And then among the Warlords and Thanes appeared the bonded, pairs of great heroes who changed the course of history. Separate, they were formidable foes; together, they could stand against immense numbers, even a Sorcerer. At the height of the Age, the greatest of these were Steven, Lord Rogers, and Thane Barnes. With their companions, they pushed back the enemies, forcing them to retreat to the depths and the desert, to the mountains and the barren waste. Years it took, and the cost was great; Barnes fell first into the dark pits between the peaks, and the mourning was great, for part of Steven’s very soul fell with him. Yet, even greater were the cries of anguish when, in the final hours, Lord Rogers was lost beneath the icy waves of the ocean. Their sacrifice freed the entire land from the dark cloud that choked it, and, in respect, King Phillips created the title of Paladin to be the kingdom’s champion, the greatest of all thanes with unerring moral strength and determination. 

But now, another ruined land needed to be rebuilt, and years, decades, and centuries passed.  The Warlords became Lords, but the honor of being chosen remained. The title of Thane became an honor, and chosen heirs were as plentiful as familial titles. New enemies, the human kind, harassed the kingdom, and slowly the memory of magic faded. Sorcerers became characters in children’s stories, dragons images drawn by artists, and bonded pairs relegated to the domain of romantic stories sung by bards in bowers and halls. Humans multiplied, kings and queens came and went, and the people thrived. The Second New Age, a time of prosperity and growth, lengthened … and people forgot.

Until the Third New Age, the Time of Heroes, began. This is the story of those men and women who rose to the challenge of an even greater threat. Because, as we all know, magic never truly goes away …


	2. An Unexpected Alliance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Philip Coulson is content being a Thane in Lord Fury's household. Lord Clinton Barton just wants to rebuild his holding. But the King, Prince Loki, and Lord Fury all have their own plans for the two men.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lords can chose their heirs. Fury has four: Phil, Maria, Peter, Darcy. Since Clint never expected to become Lord Barton, he has thanes who are his friends and fellow knights: Natasha, Jessica, and Carol. Yeah, I know. I thought it was funny considering this is a Phil & Clint story. ;D

“Is he coming today?” Peter asked for the twenty-third time since noon meal. Patience was never his long suit and right now his boundless energy was making it difficult to sit still in the hard chair. He was supposed to working on his history, but at sixteen he’d much rather be on the practice field than trapped inside, reading musty old tomes about the Children’s War.

“Today or tomorrow.” Philip answered without looking up from the ledger he was filling with careful, tiny lines of inked numbers that had to add up at the bottom of the page. Accounts were his least favorite job, but it was the most important to get right. Lord Fury wasn’t a man who suffered fools easily, and he’d put his trust in Philip when he’d made him the Overseer of Mons Tueor. Lands, manors, people … all fell under Philip’s purview. His talent lay in organization, using the knowledge he found in old tomes and musty libraries to ensure those who looked to Lord Fury for protection had the chance not just to survive, but to flourish. Tenants who ate enough worked harder, soldiers who shared the wealth of conquest fought harder, and thanes given opportunities became more skilled.

“Should I bathe now? If he arrives before dinner, I might have time to ask him and I should look my best, don’t you think?” Peter was standing now, pacing from bookshelf to bookshelf, not even pausing to glance out the window. Usually, he sat on the pillows where he could see the northern most edge of the training area; this time of day, Master Quartermain had the guard running drills. Like most young men, he had dreams of being a knight, maybe even becoming the King’s Paladin one day. But Peter was different; his talent had manifested at a young age, and his intelligence made him the ridicule of all his peers. Even adults of his town shunned him, a sad truth about the chosen. Only among others who understood, knew the isolation of being unique, could they find acceptance.

“Peter.” Philip sighed and carefully tucked his quill into the hole in the desk to avoid any stray ink falling on the precious vellum. “We have spoken of this before. You know my feelings on the matter and my advice. It’s time to make your own decisions; you’ll soon be invested with your own position.”

“Philip, you know Nick the Furious thinks I’m still too young to know what I want. I’m sure he’ll say no. Then what do I do?” His voice was verging too close to begging; as an heir to the largest holding in all the Midlands, Peter had to learn that Tarians never begged, nor did they whine.  In answer, Philip simply stared, staying silent. Soon Peter’s footsteps faltered and he dropped into his chair, ducking his head and going back to pretending to study. With the slightest shake of his head, Philip went back to work, reading through the various papers and transferring the information into the larger ledger.  They were losing too many sheep to an overpopulation of wolves near the border with Stark’s lands and the Mill at Dugan’s Creek was underperforming again. Time for a surprise visit; he penciled in a notation to add that stop to his planned trip over the plateau.

Those were small annoyances. Overall, Tueor was thriving, according to the numbers in front of Philip. He liked he had a hand in that, could return the years of support that his Lord had given him. He’d heard the stories of other thanes pressed into service in the guard, even the most bookish given a sword and forced to fight. Not Philip; Philip had been chosen by Lord Stoner, taken from the small home he and his mother had been reduced to after his father’s death and brought to Tarian Castle where he met Nicholas Fury, the man who would become his friend and the next Lord of Tueor. Within six months, Philip began to train separately from the main guard; he was given unlimited access to the libraries of all the manors and quickly became skilled in unique forms of combat more suited to his new role.  On his 18th birthday, his gift had been the keys to Coul Hall, his father’s ancestral home. In two years he’d made the small manor and surrounding lands profitable again, fixing years of neglect.  Since then, he’d taken on more and more responsibility, proving over again that the trust he’d been given had not been misplaced. Now, at 28, he was in charge of the whole, and he took his job very seriously. Many called Philip Nicolas’s left hand – the right was reserved for Maria Hill, chosen only a year after Philip. The two had trained together, and now Maria was the Head of all of Tueor’s guard.

The clatter of hooves on the cobblestones made Peter perk up; Philip sighed and nodded. There was no way he could keep Peter’s attention now.  “Go. Meet them,” he said. He’d have to go as well, but not before he sprinkled sand on the page to set the ink, leaving it open to dry. Pushing back the heavy wooden chair, he felt the familiar ache in his fingers, and he clenched his hands into a fist, willing away the bone deep throb. All in his head, that’s what the clerics told him. This was nothing but phantom pain from too many days spent clutching a quill and bending over books as they dragged out ancient tomes to back up their claims. But Phil had read more than they had, Tarian’s library far more expansive than the largest of the monasteries. Knowledge was power; unfortunately, many believed the Men of Letters who taught that the distant past was dangerous, to be avoided. In one of the oldest books, pages cracking with age, he’d read of those like Maria and Peter and the others, people with abilities and, yes, even magic. The word made a charge spark between his fingers and the ledger; soon, he’d need to find a way to bleed it off, run out the energy before he hurt someone, but for now, he needed to greet the returning party.

As he left the room, the household bustled, and he was proud to see the way the stones gleamed from washing, and the hearth scrubbed free of ash and smoke, the fire burning efficiently under the stone arch. He’d just had the tapestries depicting the tale of the first Lord of Tarian’s great battle against the Hydra restored with vibrant colors, and they hung now in places of honor in the entryway. From the smells wafting through the corridors, fresh bread was cooling and the slabs of beef were roasting. All was prepared.  He arrived at the right moment, just as the entourage pulled to a halt in front of the long flight of stone steps that lead to the main doors. A moment of relief flowed through him to see them all hale and hearty; the roads were dangerous, growing more so lately with the Red Knight encroaching across the river and Tarleton harrying them from the West. Even their own court was full of plots, ambassadors vying for influence, and King Donaldson was weak; he was the least of his brothers, too willing to be led rather than lead.

“Philip.” Maria swung down from her horse, handing off the reigns to a groom. “I hope you’ve got May working on one of her wonderful meals. Too many days on the road with hardtack; I’ve been dreaming of her cherry tarts and waking up hungry.”

“Oh, come now, I now you like jerky,” Philip joked as he watched them all for telltale signs of trouble. Maria’s dark eyes were ringed by shadows, her traveling gear at least three days gone with wear and slept in.  Petite and slim, Maria might pass for a lady of the court, if she ever wore a dress or knew how to sew a stitch. No, Maria’s gift wasn’t in the arts or home, she was a great leader, a brilliant strategist and a fighter of excellence. Few would argue with her battle plans and even less would dare call her a lady to her face.

Lord Fury swung his leather clad leg over the saddle and dismounted, his long leather coat split in the back for riding. His dark skin made the signs of his exhaustion harder to see, but Philip had long ago learned to read his benefactor and friend. He was favoring his left knee as he dismounted and made his way up the stairs. Tired. Worried. Something had happened at court. Philip grounded the spark that slipped from his forefinger into the hilt of his dagger, letting the metal carry the heat away. “There are baths awaiting and I saw a side of beef with May’s special sauce. And a new pastry to try, something she called a dough circle. Smacked my hand when I tried to steal one.”

“Hot water.” Maria smiled at him, the dirt of the road shading her cheeks and forehead. “I could scrub for days.”

“As always, good job, Philip,” Nicolas clapped him on the shoulder as he passed. “My study in thirty. We’ve much to discuss.” 

Maria winced, bath becoming a quick wash and change now; she followed Lord Fury into the hall. There was bad news, Philip knew, and no time to waste. He saw the grooms off to the stables with the horses, gave orders for the belongings to be brought up, and spoke to the other knights and guard, ensuring they had food and comforts after the journey. As he hurried back inside, something heavy and hard settled in his chest, the bloom of worry taking his breath away. His leather jerkin couldn’t protect him from the charge that sizzled up his arm, nowhere to go but into the skin beneath. There was time for a detour to the armory where the whetstone was already scarred with blackened slashes burned in the shape of a human hand. Better exhausted than bristling and on edge.

………………………..

“The King is enamored of this new visitor.” Nicolas stalked around the chamber, ignoring the warmth of the fire in his need to pace. “I can hardly make him listen to me. He banned me from his chambers because he said I was a harbinger of gloom.”

Maria was seated next to him; Philip listened quietly, understanding the anger behind the furrowed brow. The cycle had begun again; the King chose a favorite, seduced by bright eyes, smooth lies, and lips that told him what he wanted to hear. Lavish gifts would follow, then positions of authority, titles, other people’s lands given to the favorite’s family and friends. Soon, the new one would flex his muscles, pushing for his own agenda, capturing the King’s ear. The last had been Lady Frost; she’d ruled court with her icy demeanor, cutting off those who had supported the King’s father, replacing them with younger nobles who followed her every word. The King had dressed her in diamonds and made her the largest landowner in the country. Her fall had been swift; as easily as a favorite rose, so too did they come to an end. The true power of the country lay in the noble houses and the Lords who ran them. Wise Kings courted them; foolish ones did not last long.

“The infatuation won’t last.” Maria was right. As soon as the King needed them, he’d come groveling back to his Lords. “Prince Loki may be more skilled at manipulation than the others, but the King will lose interest eventually.”

“Loki has plans within plans, mark my word.” Nicolas finally sat, leather coat splaying out around him. “I have a feeling that this first feint is just to lull us into placidity.”

“An Asgardian plot?” Maria asked. Of all their allies, the Kingdom of Asgard was both the most mysterious and the most long-standing. Few people visited and King Odin made no secret of his belief that the problems of the Midlands weren’t his troubles. Yet, they had never actively been aggressive, sometimes sharing knowledge and aid.

“Our woman inside Odin’s court says that this position was a kind of punishment for the prodigal heir.  He’s a silver tongued devil who enjoys stirring trouble,” Nicolas said.

“So daddy sent him here?” Maria snorted and poured a glass of wine for Nicolas first then herself second. Philip shook his head no when she offered. “Odin thinks highly of us, it seems.”

“I dare say Odin simply does not think of us at all.” Philip had studied the history of their neighbors. “If Loki is plotting, I would imagine he is working with another faction within the court or …”

“Indeed.” Fury agreed. They didn’t need to speak their fears out loud; after too many nights of speculations with only innuendo and rumor to work from, facts remained elusive. And yet, they were convinced another power was in play, moving behind the scenes. Reports of attacks on the outlying holdings, farmers telling of misshaped men who carried unusual weapons, and beasts in the night that ripped animals to shreds and stole children from their beds. Skirmishes on the border with the Red Knight’s forces that came immediately upon the heels of forays by Tarleton’s yellow clad warriors. The room quieted, Nicolas staring into the flames as if looking for answers. Philip looked askance at Maria; her eyes widened and she gave a tiny shake of her head. She didn’t know either, but Nicolas’s worry was obvious.

“Tell us,” she encouraged. “We cannot plan until we know.”

With a sigh, Nicholas spoke. “Prince Loki has asked the King to make an alliance with his royal house of Asgard. He has offered aid in our fight against the Red Knight.”

“This seems a good thing,” Philip said, caution making him chose his words carefully. Anything suggested by Loki was to be suspected. “Assuming Loki can deliver on his promise. They have never offered military help before.”

“True, but that is the least of our worries. As the King has no heirs, he has chosen my house for the honor.” Fury swirled the wine in his glass, and Phil knew the news was only going to get worse.

“Milord, I will, of course, do my duty.” Maria’s eyes darted to Philip; she was the oldest female heir and thus the logical choice despite the knowledge that she was indispensable as the leader of Fury’s armies. Still, he was probably one of the only people who knew her heart on the matter, knew how much an alliance would cost her in matters of the heart.

“It’s not you, Maria,” Nicholas said with a slight smile as if amused by the thought of the aloof Prince meeting her. She couldn’t hide the way her shoulders sagged with relief.

“Darcy is barely nineteen.” Philip couldn’t imagine Lord Nicholas agreeing to send the vibrant young woman into an arranged marriage. He also spared the Asgardians a quick jolt of sympathy if such a union took place; Darcy would be running the court in a matter of weeks. “If the proffered husband is young himself, perhaps a lengthy engagement?”

“It is Prince Loki who offers his hand,” Nicholas looked directly into Phil’s eyes. “And he has asked for you.”

The lump in his throat stopped his breath, and he felt the energy rise so quickly he couldn’t contain it. Books blew off the table, a chair flew across the room to clatter against the stone wall, and the fire sputtered, showering sparks onto the hearth. He clamped down on his emotions, turning the flow back on himself, letting it burn inside of his chest.

“No.” The word changed as the sound passed his lips, weighted down with command. Maria snapped up straight in her chair, hands curling around the arms, and Nicholas’s head turned. Philip’s thoughts turned to books, words running through his mind’s eye -- a line of poetry, a mathematical formula, a verse of an old hymn.

“No.” Phil repeated, taking a deep breath to slow his heart down. Minutes passed before he felt he could speak normally again. “I’m sorry. Of course, if you deem the match necessary, I will do as you command.”

“It could be good for you, Phil,” Nicolas said quietly. “Our contact is convinced Queen Freya has abilities and Loki may as well; the Asgardians may be more open and accepting.”

Ability. That was the common term for it. Philip’s earliest memories were of his parents teaching him to hide what he could do to avoid suspicion.  No one ever uttered the word magic, too scared of the Men of Letters and their condemnation to even whisper the possibility. That was the stuff of legends, those old tales told to children. Magic wasn’t real.

“And I could report what I learn back to you.” Part of being an heir was forming alliances; they all knew the day might come when they were called upon to make an advantageous marriage. But Philip had become complacent over the last few years as he grew older, too busy with his studies and his work to think about the possibility. To imagine that Loki would pick him, a scholar and a clerk as much as anything else, didn’t make sense. 

“Yes, that’s true. I imagine you’d be an expert on Asgard within a few years.” Nicholas, as ever, kept his face impassive in the way that served him well at court. “And I must say that Prince Loki is handsome. Charming too, don’t you agree, Maria?”

“Tall, slim, dark-haired.” Maria didn’t have as stony as face as Nicholas; her dislike of the prince was evident. “Arrogant with an ego the size of the ocean. Oily and too good with words. But many young men and ladies of court speak highly of his sexual prowess. Two and three at a time …”

Philip’s face flushed at the thought; given his own lack of experience just the mention of the marital bed gave him pause. At heart, he was an idealist, holding out for a love match; few knew how much he enjoyed the tales of the bonded, but he convinced himself he was happy with his life the way it was. He hadn’t had time for a relationship in the last few years, and he could honestly say he had not been upset when his earlier attempts had ended without so much as a moment of upset.

“How long would I have?” Calculations unspooled in Philip’s head. “I have to make adjustments and find a replacement …” He spun to a halt. “You have no intention of such a match,” he accused Nicolas. “Odds are, Loki hopes to gain information about our strengths and weaknesses and who better to know? He believes he can seduce me into telling him, expecting I’ll be glad for his attention since I’m old and on the shelf.”

“Not to mention that your absence would weaken the whole structure of the holding,” Maria added. “And you are neither old nor on the shelf. You are quite handsome, and many have set their cap for you. You are just terribly choosey.”

“Thank you.” He returned her smile; he could count on her to cheer him up even if he didn’t really believe her words. His hair was already starting to thin and he needed lenses to focus on some pages of script. “But how are we to avoid the King’s directive? If he wishes a marriage, he will have one.”

“Ah, yes, well it seems I have yet to receive the official writ. We had to leave so suddenly after the news of the accident at Cage House that the King’s message didn’t get delivered. Thankfully you handled that with your usual efficiency. I’m sure the messenger will get re-directed here eventually.” Nicolas did so enjoy the clandestine parts of his job. “Three days at the most before we must deal with the King. Too bad I’ve already made a contract with another party that takes precedence.”

“What?” Maria demanded.

“What?” Philip asked at the exact same moment. Lord Nicolas always played his hand close to his vest, but to agree to an engagement without telling them? It took a second for the answer to come to Philip. “One of your contingency plans, I take it?”

“Indeed.” Nicolas responded, settling back and steepling his fingers in front of his face. “What do you know of Barton Manor?”

“That tiny holding?” Maria was even more surprised. “They applied to you for protection two years ago; an attack left them Lordless and in dire straits, if I remember correctly.”

Lord Nicolas raised his eyebrow, encouraging him to provide the information he had. Philip was never sure if this was a test of his talents or Nicolas letting someone else do the research so he didn’t have to.

“Barton Manor, formerly Frasier Hall. On the border between the Midlands and the Hills of Argoth. Fairly wealthy until Edith Fraiser, only heir, married Harold Barton; Lord Barton was a man who relied upon violence and intimidation to rule. Two sons … Charles and ... Clinton.” He had to drag the names out of his memory. “Lady Barton’s life ended in a suspicious fall, and Lord Barton died from exposure. Riding home drunk, he fell from his horse one winter night.” Standing, Philip crossed to the bookshelves and pulled down a recent set of maps; laying it open on the table, he pointed out the location. “Lord Charles wasn’t much better, but then the disappearances began, farms furthest out feeling the brunt, culminating in the raid two years ago. Eyewitnesses reported soldiers who weren’t men but skeletons with little flesh led by a tall man in a green cloak and golden helm.” The stories had been catalogued and added to the growing stack of unexplained events. “The manor house was partially destroyed, many of the long-term retainers killed, and Lord Charles disappeared.”

“What of the other son?” Maria asked.

“Left just after his mother passed to seek his fortune elsewhere.” It was a common story of second sons, especially of smaller holdings. There was plenty of fame and gold to be had fighting in various disputes and wars. If Philip had learned one thing in his studies, it was that humans always found ways to hurt each other over the smallest of differences. “Probably so far away, he hasn’t heard the news …” And that’s when he understood Lord Nicolas’ plan. Rather than speak his suspicious aloud, Philip waited for confirmation.

“Sir Clinton Francis Barton is returned and open to the idea of a union. His lands are in shambles and he needs someone with a firm hand and good skills at managing estates to help put them in order, along with a healthy infusion of gold to see it done. In return, he has agreed to become one of my Thanes and heirs. I’m confident you can handle the reconstruction of Barton Manor as well as continue your work for the rest of the Holding, just from a different location. Besides, it’s long past time you began to train others to be your aides.  I’ll need you in the days ahead.”

For the second time in the conversation, Philip was taken aback. His day had begun worried about mills and sheep, and now he was engaged to a man he’d never met. Knowing more about the situation he’d be walking into helped – he had the holding on his list to visit this year – but the tight knot of worry didn’t abate. He tried to remember more about the youngest Barton, but nothing came; genealogy records did little more than list children and birthdates, and Philip couldn’t dredge that number out of his memory. No matter how young or old, he’d been a mercenary for at least 10 years or more and that left a mark on a man. Despite what the bards sang, war was no romantic endeavor; Philip knew all too well the smell of blood and the groans of the wounded. Too many sons returned broken men, unable to participate in polite society. And yet, Lord Nicolas was offering Sir Clinton a position in his family.

“The new Lord Barton is … skilled?” Maria was the one to raise the question. All of Fury’s heirs had talents and abilities, ones he thought strengthened the family’s position.

“I believe Philip is quite fond of the tale of the _Crimean Pirates and the Archer_.” Fury stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles. “He asks Sal to play it often enough after dinner.”

“Clinton Barton is the Archer?” That knot in his chest dropped into lower regions of his body and warmed him enough that he tugged the edge of his jerkin lower. Oh, yes, he did enjoy that tale of the exploits of a blonde-haired hero, especially the part where the Archer dressed as a pirate to infiltrate Captain LeBeau’s crew. So much so that he had memorized sections of it to repeat in the middle of the night. But he needed to not let his mind wander to those solitary moments with nothing but his imagination and his own hand too long; at least he could position himself behind stacks of books to hide his less than scholarly interest and splay his fingers on the heavy table so the energy grounded into the wood. “I thought that only a story.”

“Sources seem to confirm that fact. And he’s returned with three very interesting Thanes and a retinue of battle-tested warriors who fought under his command.” Fury didn’t have to expand on that statement; they all three agreed a war was coming, and far too few people capable and experienced in dealing with the realities of the fight. “We will meet one of those Thanes soon. I have invited Barton to send an envoy to conclude the negotiations, and I believe she’ll be arriving today.”

The smallest sound of rock bumping against rock and all three of their heads went up, senses on alert. Nicolas’s study was high in the central white tower, but there were always ways to overhear. Silence for a few beats and the slightest intake of breath from outside the window.

“You may as well join us, Peter,” Nicolas said. No response for a few seconds, then a hand appeared on the side of the window sill, a dusty and dirty Peter Parker right behind it, swinging into the room and dropping on to the floor. His brown hair was wild and windblown, his feet bare despite the crisp autumn air. “Tell me the Lady Darcy is not out there as well.”

“She was waylaid by Aunt May for a dress fitting,” Peter admitted as he ducked his head to avoid looking at the others.

“I see.” The disapproving look was cold and deadly, yet Philip could see the glimmer of humor; Nicolas tapped his fingers together and remained relaxed. Crawling up walls and across parapets was an old habit with Peter; he’d been doing it since he was a child and took any height as a challenge to his skill. At least Philip had managed to get him to understand that the behavior scared others. No more flipping from one yardarm to the next, at least when strangers and towns people were in view.

“It’s not fair to Phil,” Peter burst out. Constraint wasn’t one of his strong suits. “I know we have to, that’s what being an heir means, but he’s happy here and you don’t even know this guy at all! He could be like Thane Wilson, crazy from war, or Thane Ross, a creepy old man.”

“As a matter of fact, Lord Barton is twenty-four and he is mentally stable,” Fury calmly countered.

“But … But Philip will have to leave and who will teach me and keep Darcy from running around in pants and make Jasper let me ride in the afternoons and …” The words came tumbling from Peter’s mouth.

“Peter.” Philip was just as calm as Nicolas, cutting into the flow; it was long past time for Peter to stand on his own.

“I had thought you ready to advance your studies at the University,” Fury mused, and Philip had to work to keep his face impassive. “Philip tells me you are quite the budding scholar.”

Peter eyes flew open and he held his breath for a few beats before he could respond. “I, yes, I would very much enjoy continuing. I have been corresponding with Professor Osborne, with Philip’s permission.” He could hardly contain his joy, bouncing on his toes, but managing to maintain a formal stance.

“Well then, that is settled.” Nicolas pushed up from his chair. “Now, I believe the bathwater should still be warm enough to clean up before dinner. I’m famished.” He nodded to them all, clearly aware he was leaving Philip to handle the fallout of the decisions as he exited the room; he was very good at dramatic departures.

“University, Phil!” Peter turned to him and threw himself at Philip, knocking him off balance and into the edge of the table. “You told him, didn’t you? I know you did.” He danced back and then remembered the rest of the conversation. “Oh. Phil. This marriage is bullshit! You shouldn’t have to do it.”

“It will be a new challenge and with you off to your books, this place will be much quieter.” Philip almost sounded like he believed that.

“The Archer, though. Seriously, Phil, you’ll know if it’s him won’t you?” Peter was back to prattling, moving in his own little dance around the room.

“I suppose so,” he agreed; he hadn’t really had time to think about it.

“The scar! You can see if he has the scar.”

“What scar?” Maria asked, confused.

“In the story, the Archer is scarred by Captain LeBeau’s cutlass, a crescent shape right long his hip bone. We know because the beautiful red head he rescues sees it later. Phil can check and see if it’s there!” Peter answered.

So much for regaining his composure. Just the image of tracing a scar on the shallow part of the Archer’s hip with his fingers? Philip was going to have to carry books around with him for the rest of the evening to hide the bulge in his trousers.

“Yes, Phil. You’ll have to check and see.” Maria said with a snicker as she tucked her arm in his. “But right now I’m hungry, and you can escort me down to dinner.”

* * *

 

His shoulders ached from hefting the large river rocks up and over his head; the sun beat down on his already tanned skin, sweat trickling down his back as he reached for another despite the cool temperature. The wall never seemed to change, the same long expanse of rubble before them and the same rebuilt section behind. Fortifications were no good if they were in pieces, strewn about the landscape. Stonemason was a long way from his mercenary days, but it seemed that’s what he’d become because Lord or no Lord, Clint couldn’t protect the people of the small valley until he got this done.

“Watch the hands,” Jessica warned when Clint nearly dropped a large stone, distracted by his thoughts. “I think you’d be better off working with the chinking in the state you’re in.” She tilted her head, black tendrils of hair escaping her long braid, and looked at him with her all-knowing green eyes.

“Thank you for your concern.” Not for the first time, Clint wondered how he’d ended up surrounded by fearless women who felt the need to run his life. Jessica was a perfect example; she had been provoking him since the morning, pressing him during their practice session and now this afternoon. “But I can stack stones well enough.”

“Aye, and you can second guess your decisions either way.” That bit of the southern lands slipped into Jess’s voice now and again, the farm still there despite her years of moving around.   “You’ve done what had to be done. Worrying will gain you nothing.”

“As if that would stop me,” Clint glanced over at the other men and women working alongside them; the habit of keeping secrets was too ingrained to start sharing now. “I’m a responsible land owner now, remember? It’s part of the job.”

“Milord.” The boy … Jace, Clint recalled … slid to a halt, panting from exertion. “Thane Romanov has returned and wishes to speak with you.”

“Go,” Jessica agreed. “I’ll keep an eye on things here.”

The walk back did little to ease his mind. Every ruined husk of a house he passed, the fallow fields and empty pens, were reminders of his failures. The burned out mill, blackened boards left in a haphazard pile, half of the waterwheel listing at a drunken angle, blocking the creek – he’d played there as a child, had made a nest under the floorboards where he kept all of his treasures in a tin box. His father never looked for him outside the manor walls, and the foundations of the chimney kept his spot warm enough even in the depths of winter. Every time he passed he thought about stopping, digging through the wreckage to see if the box was still there after all this time, but he didn’t. Those days were gone, and there was no going back.

The manor wasn’t much better; the family wing was nothing but rubble with boarded up windows and openings to try and stop the flow of the cold winds that whipped down from the mountains.  The great hall had only four remaining buttresses, a good portion of the roof nothing but unplaned wood thrown up to keep the rain out. Gone were the stained glass windows that Michael Frasier brought home after the Battle of Trewleyn four generations ago. Soot crawled up the sides of the kitchen now; only the second floor of the guest and servant rooms had escaped the flames with all four walls and a roof intact. The place had never been perfect – his father had preferred to drink away any profit rather than invest it back into the land – but it had been home to a lot of families who had counted on their Lord to take care of them.

Natasha Romanov was waiting on the front steps, issuing some instructions to the groom; she nodded when she saw Clint approaching. For all Clint could tell, Natasha had been for a pleasure ride on a sunny fall afternoon; there was no flicker of how her reconnaissance had gone. Her red hair caught the light, her green eyes flashing up to his face when he came towards her. Petite, inches shorter than Clint, she still could quell a man with just a glance.

“You smell,” she announced, wrinkling her nose at his appearance. He’d forgotten he’d taken off his vest, rolling up the sleeves of his linen shirt, and he was now dirty with sweat and mud.

“Welcome back to you too,” he said, heading up the stairs and into the hall. Never one for pleasantries, that was Natasha; from the moment they’d met and she’d saved his inexperienced ass, something had connected between them.  Not love or some kind of romantic bond like in those old stories, but the kind of link forged in blood and sweat and near misses with death. The fact that Clint preferred men was, as she had put it, a selling point. He’d never pressed her about why she mistrusted men, and she never asked why he passed coins to boys with unexplained bruises. There was no need; they understood each other perfectly. 

“Wine for Thane Romanov.” He grabbed a passing soldier and sent him off towards the kitchen. Another thing he had to do; find servants for the house. He’d had no time to think of anything beyond the immediate fortifications in case of another attack. Finding someone who knew how to cook more than camp food was also on that list.

They settled into the small space that used to be a storage room for the Steward’s records and now served as Clint’s makeshift study. Hardly big enough for a small desk and three mismatched chairs, the room was the best they could do. Clint sat down in his favorite chair, a worn wooden piece with curved sides and arm rests; it used to grace the groom’s office down by the stables back when there was more than just stone walls and stalls. Clint had loved the Head Groom, loved the smell of horses and hay – it was another one of his best hiding places. The chair was smooth yet sturdy and made him think this ramshackle mess he’d inherited was worth the effort.

“Seems Lord Fury left court before Loki finalized the deal,” Natasha began without preamble as soon as she had wet her throat with the sour wine. “The King is playing catch up, sending messengers scurrying out after him. I’d say Fury bought two or three days; Carol will arrive before nightfall.”

Which, Clint knew, meant he’d be married to a man he’d never met and wouldn’t for a good week or so more before he went to sleep. He’d sent his proxy with Carol, and she’d stand in his place at the ceremony. After that, just the consummation remained; until then happened, there was still room for the King to annul the union.

“Fury’s smart, but we knew that.” Clint sat his own glass down, the alcohol not of interest to him, his stomach already roiled with his thoughts. “His protection and money will go a long way towards shoring up the defenses here; I’m worried about the reports from the outer holds.” Herds were thinning in the foothills, those sheep left to roam not coming home. It was starting again, Clint knew, his instincts for trouble honed by those years sleeping in snatches with an ear open.

“We’re not the only ones. I had a very interesting conversation with Lord Stark’s Head Guard Hogan. They have holders moving back to Stark Castle, claiming there are monsters in the dark on the moors. And Lord Richards is locked in his tower as usual, working on some new project that is consuming his attention, but he’s sent his brother-in-law and wife on a progress to survey their boundaries. They know trouble is afoot.” Natasha folded a leg under her, lithe and flexible. This was what she did best, mingling at court, knowing who to befriend and just how to get the information they needed. She blended well, at ease in an elegant gown as well as her leather jodhpurs, and had saved their lives over again with the smallest of dropped word, the most simple of body language read and interpreted.

“And the King doesn’t listen, too caught up in Loki’s lies.” Anger. That’s what he felt. Privileged and useless, squandering his power on sycophants while the people teetered on the brink of a fall.  No use in going over it all again, though; Natasha already agreed with him about the danger.

“Four years older.” Natasha’s green eyes never left his face as she spoke. “In case you wanted to know.”

He did, but he didn’t. What difference did the knowledge make? Whoever Philip Coulson was, Clint had made his decision.

“Competent. Learned. Organized. Scholarly. Tough but fair. Fury’s left hand. Those are the terms most often used to describe him. Then there are the rumors. My personal favorite is that he was created in Lord Stark’s workshop, the perfect steward. Even more fascinating are the older whispers that his mother was more than just a healer and he inherited her power.” She was teasing Clint, tossing out bits and pieces to get him to admit his interest. He might as well because she wouldn’t stop until he asked.

“What is your opinion, Nat?” That earned him one of her rare real smiles.

“He may just be exactly what we need here. He’s actively involved in Fury’s properties and very good at his job. I’d hazard a guess he’ll have this place running again much faster than we can imagine. But more than that, I’ve heard watching him and Thane Hill spar is a thing of beauty.” She sighed a little; well-trained fighters were like poetry to her. “I can assure you, he’s not ugly; one of the court bards has written an ode to his blue eyes. I could sing you a verse if you like.”

“No, thank you.” He had to smile at the notion; Natasha had no sense of tone at all. When they’d earned room & board in exchange for a few songs, Clint always had to do the vocals while she played. “Blue eyes, eh?”

“I hear he wears lens when he reads, which is quite often.” Now she was going for the kill; she knew exactly what kind of man Clint liked over their years together.

“Yes, and he can beat me at cards, bake a cherry pie, and really wants an ex-mercenary with a lot of scars to top him,” Clint rolled his eyes. “You don’t have to sell him to me.”

“True. All I will say is I am hopeful. And if the magic turns out to be true? More than hopeful, downright excited.” She wouldn’t lie to him. Not about this.

For a moment, he let himself believe all would be well.

* * *

 

“Are you going to faint?” Peter whispered in Philip’s ear. “I’ll get Darce to stand on the other side and we’ll keep you up. No one will know.”

He wasn’t going to faint even though his stomach was churning and his knees felt weak. Not exactly how he thought his wedding would go; there had never been a tall blonde warrior standing next to him in even the most outrageous scenarios. Yet here he was, time of the essence, Nicolas, Maria, Darcy and Peter as witnesses. Jasper Stillwell was handling the paperwork; normally that would be Philip’s job but he couldn’t validate his own marriage contract.

“Philip?” Jasper asked, handing him a quill. Stepping forward, Philip saw Lord Clinton Francis Barton’s already inked name and his hand hesitated, a small blot of ink falling on the page. With a deep breath, Philip signed his own.  And just like that, he was married. The room spun slightly, and he suddenly wished he’d eaten some of May’s amazing roast and forgone that shot of liquid courage he’d taken before coming here.

What’s done is done, he thought. Tomorrow he had to begin planning for his move to Barton Manor. He started the list in his head even as he handed the quill back.


	3. An Answer to the Right Question

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Philip arrives at Barton Manor, creatures are being driven out of the mountains and the King is on his way for a visit. But his biggest worry is the wedding night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Katya asked for an awkward consummation and this is what I came up with. It's lust at first sight, but love will have to come later. I'm working on a map now for the kingdom. Having so much fun with this.

They rode hard, pushing themselves and their horses long past sundown, using the light of the waxing moon to see where the smaller trail turned off from the main road. As the trees closed in around them, they had to dismount and lead their sweaty mounts through the winding turns that led to the small clearing. The stone building was tucked under the eaves of a large ash tree, the branches curving over the thatch like a second roof, trunk snug against a rock wall. It was hard to tell how large the house was; the shadows of the woods cloaked around it, obscuring most all but the front door.  Philip watched as Carol walked over and rapped on it with a firm knock.

This wasn’t how he expected the day to proceed. Just last evening he signed the marriage contract and began planning the logistics of his move to Barton Manor. At least a week, he’d told Lord Fury; he needed the time to pack the necessary items for the trip and make arrangements to keep the holding running smoothly in his absence. A day just to go through his library to pull out all the necessary books to be shipped by wagon, another to begin the process of hiring skilled craftsmen to help with the rebuilding efforts. Packing his personal belongings he could leave to Darcy, but Jasper would need a good two days to calm down about taking over the day-to-day duties.

All that fell by the wayside when a rider appeared with news that the King himself was on the way to TarianCastle to make his wishes known. Once he arrived, Philip’s marriage would become very short term; Prince Loki was in the royal party and an unconsummated union was easy enough for a king to annul. Within an hour, Philip was on a horse with two changes of clothes, his glasses, three books he had to have, and a satchel full of medicines and other traveling necessities. Just himself, Thane Carol Danvers, and the three guards she’d brought with her left the castle, determined to get a head start on any pursuit.  They need make only one stop on the way; Barton Manor did not have a clerk, the last one killed in the massacre two years ago, and one was needed to ratify the union.

The door opened and a man emerged, rubbing his eyes before he stared out at the group. His brown hair was a crown of short curls falling in all directions, and he wore simple brown woolen pants and a worn leather jerkin over his faded linen shirt. Blinking as if just awoken, he spoke. “Can I help you?”

“We require a clerk to verify a marriage,” Carol said. Philip had learned very little about the woman who was the head of Lord Barton’s guard; they’d only had one short conversation yesterday evening. Had they set a more leisurely pace today, there might have been time to talk, but the punishing pace had required all of their attention to the road.

“Ah, yes, and who is the lucky groom?” The clerk looked out over the five men, his assumption clear.

“It is not for me,” Carol corrected, “but for Lord Barton. We hoped you would come to the Manor with us.”

“Lord Charles is not dead?” he asked. Philip didn’t need to see the clerk’s face to know his reaction to the name; disdain echoed in his voice.

“Lord Clinton Barton has returned and taken up the mantle.” Carol’s own voice betrayed her; she was growing frustrated with the conversation. “The King requires ratification of the consummation.”

He surveyed the men again, his eyes alighting upon Philip and lingering as if he recognized him. After a moment’s hesitation, he replied, “I see. Well, in that case, I would be delighted. Is first light soon enough? I’d prefer not traveling through the woods in the dark. I’m afraid I have little room, but I can offer you a fire to warm by and soft moss to sleep in. The clearing here is quite safe.” 

“Thank you.” Philip stepped forward and offered a small nod of his head in respect. “We are tired and have traveled a long way. I am Philip Coulson, Lord Barton’s intended, and I appreciate your willingness to help.”

“Bruce,” he replied, searching Philip’s face as if for answers. “Bruce Banner. It will be my honor, milord.”

They fell to it quickly, building a small fire in the cleared pit for warmth before they tossed out their bedrolls and crawled in. Carol and the guard divided the watch for the five hours until the sun showed her face again, refusing Philip’s offer to sit for one. She’d taken to calling him Milord from the moment the contract was signed, and she treated him as if he was already the Head of the Manor. The protective element was beginning to grate on Philip, but he imagined it was just a misunderstanding; she barely knew him and it would be easy to mistake him for a bookish type. Still, he’d have to change that perception soon if he were to earn her trust.

He dropped into sleep immediately, a trait he had honed over the years; sleep when you can, Maria always said. Soon he was dreaming, wandering in darkness, wet walls of the cave lit by a blue-green luminescence. Sigils marked each turning, every opening, but they were unfamiliar and Philip was lost. Eyes glowed in the night of the passageways, watching him, waiting for him.  A steady heart beat pulsed beneath his feet, vibrations thrumming under his feet as he stumbled, took the left passage and wandered deeper. Green bled down from the curve of the ceiling, rock turned to polished stone and he walked into the ruined hall, blackened char painting intricate patterns where tapestries once hung. Before the fireplace, a figure stood, shadows handing from his shoulders; he turned, face towards the light …

When his lids flew open, he was looking at the forest, a squat shape just beyond the circle of the fire, hunched down beside a tree, half concealed by a holly bush. A flash as eyes caught the light, reflecting it back, and then it was gone, the tree swaying as it climbed to a branch and settled in the crook. He let out the breath he’d unconsciously held, slowly eased his hand to the hilt of his dagger, and waited.

“It’s a gimlet,” Carol said from where she sat watch. Tilting his head up, he could see her face, half cast in shadow; she was far from a classical beauty, her nose too angular and her chin a hair too sharp. A scar ran along her cheek and down her jaw line, faint but visible. And yet, strength radiated from her features, confidence in herself written in her blue eyes and in the straightness of her spine. He didn’t know her, yet he knew he’d want her on his side, that coiled energy fighting for him. “We’re lucky there’s only one. It won’t risk an attack on greater numbers; they’re basically scavengers, not predators.”

“I’ve read about them. I thought they lived in warrens, mostly in the foothills.” He noticed how she kept an eye on the creature without seeming to look directly at it.

“We’ve seen a number of them, mostly on the eastern borders of the holding. Took down a cow that wandered out of its pen, and three jumped a fence into a stable one night. Vicious little beasts.” She absently tucked a stray tendril of blonde hair behind her ear. “They’re moving south for some reason.”

Philip let that fact sink in and filed it away into his box of unexplained but not coincidences. “Stark has mongrels encroaching, harrying his flocks,” he offered, information for information.

“We’ve lost a lot of sheep lately, more so in the last few months than the year before. First it was strays but now it’s the herds that are furthest out in the hills.”

“Any number of predators could take down a sheep. If forced out of their habitat, they’d be agitated and aggressive.” The gimlet moved, easing along the branch to stretch out, leaves shivering as its tail dropped down and swung free. “Even our friend out there might change his nature if he’s hungry or scared enough.”

Carol nodded, accepting his point. “Everything is capable of change under the right circumstances. For us, we have a decision in the process.”

“True,” Philip answered, eyes drifting closed again. He lapsed into silence, her words echoing as he slipped back into sleep. This time, he didn’t dream.

* * *

 

The sound of galloping hooves grew close and Clint looked up, dropping the stone he was lifting and stretching to work the kink out of his back as he narrowed his focus in on the approaching figures. As soon as he saw Natasha’s red hair and the three fighters with her, he grabbed his shirt and pulled it over his head, reaching for his leather vest next. With the quick efficiency of long practice, he buckled on his sword belt, tied off the scabbard around his thigh and slung his quiver across his back. By the time she reigned in, Clint was ready to put his foot in the stirrup and swing into the saddle; he gave Jessica, ready as well, a hand up behind him before Natasha spoke.

“Trouble north of Fallow’s field,” was all she had to say and they were away, racing back the way they came, towards the town of Frasierton. They clattered across the newly built wooden bridge, the stone replacement only a third finished and circled around the town square to avoid the stalls being set up for tomorrow’s market.  Buildings became houses, further and further apart and then they were out in the fields, past rows of carrots and potatoes, through grooves of apple trees.

The first sound of battle they heard was a child’s scream and a deep throated growl that raised the hairs on the back of Clint’s neck. Topping a rise, the terrifying scene lay before him: a cozy cottage, orange flowers in bloom around the door, and a bloody body just outside, sightless eyes of the farmer staring at nothing. Around him circled three animals unlike anything Clint had ever seen before. Four-legged like a wolf, slick coat of an otter, the size of a hound, they worried the body, gnawing at the limbs. One picked up a hand and shook it like a rag in a dog’s mouth. Two more jumped at the tree near the front corner; a young child, no more than three, clung to a limb, screaming for his mother between broken sobs. Of the mother, there was no sign.

Slowing, he lined up the shot, arrow flying unerringly into one of the creatures harrying the child. It yelped in pain before it fell and four heads swiveled, keying in on the newcomers; they ran fast, swifter than a horse, with a smooth gait that covered ground in long strides. Clint got off two more shots before the creatures were on them, leaping up to grab feet. One of the men grunted in surprise as a set of sharp teeth closed on his ankle and yanked him out of the saddle; bone cracked as he fell but Natasha’s sword slashed deep into the creature’s flank before it could do more and Jessica had the fourth dispatched before the woman came running out the door, baby tied to her back.

“Martin!” she fell down on the ground next to the man and hunched over him, hair falling loose about her face.

“I’ve got the boy,” Jessica said. Clint dismounted and handed her the reins; she stopped under the tree, gently coaxing the child down.

“He’s dead, oh, gods, he’s dead,” the woman wailed. Her crying made the baby start up, his face scrunching up, flush red as he screamed. Clint walked to her, helping her up with a hand under her arm.  “Milord?” she hiccupped as she tried to stifle her sobs.

“What happened?” He’d seen far too many weeping spouses in his time already. “Can you tell me?”

“Martin came home for lunch. To see the baby. He’s colicky and so hard to handle, so he gave me a break and was taking Richard with him.” The older boy in question came running to his mother; she smothered him with her skirt as he clung tightly, brown eyes wide with shock. I’d just gone back inside when those things came. Martin tossed Richard up, and then they were on him. I’ve never seen anything like them.”

“Why don’t you take the children inside,” Jessica suggested. She’d dropped out of her saddle and urged the woman towards the door. “We’ll take care of him, I promise.”

“Thank you, Milord. You saved my children. Those things would have had us all,” she said as she scooped the boy up, carrying both children into their small home.

“Any idea what these are?” Clint looked at the dead carcass under the tree. Claws extended from the paws, curved and wicked-looking.

There was no warning; the weight hit him square in the middle of back, carrying him down to the ground as sharp pricks dug into his skin, cutting through the leather easily. Fetid breath rolled over his senses as teeth descended towards his exposed neck. No time to think ‘oh, I’m dead’ just an instant reaction; he bucked up, using his hands as leverage and the mouth snapped shut inches short of its goal. His head slammed into fur covered sinew, then he felt the body on top of him go stiff, the death yowl deafening in his ears as the creature fell off of him, Natasha’s sword in its spine. It was fully twice the size of the others, easily as big as a small pony. Offering her hand, Natasha helped him up; he felt his back, his vest and shirt in shreds where the creatures had clung.

“You just can’t have anything nice,” Natasha remarked, an old joke. “Here, let me see.” She turned him around. “Nothing to worry about. I’ll check on Johnson.” She headed back to the wounded man.

“Burn the bodies?” Jessica asked. Her sword was still drawn and her eyes scanned the horizon. “The farmer too?”

One of the lessoned learned in the further isles: better safe than sorry keeps you alive for one more day. “All of them. My money’s on a mother and her cubs. Look how lean their flanks are? They were starving.”

“Nothing’s dared some this close before,” Jessica voiced what Clint was thinking. “It’s getting worse.”

“Yes, it is.”

When they returned to the manor, Clint made them see to Johnson first, helping carry him into the main hall, his broken leg held at an unnatural angle. Barton Manor no longer boasted a healer; all they had was one of Clint’s men who was versed in battlefield triage. He could set a bone, wrap up a wound, but anything beyond that was out of his expertise. Only after Johnson had taken his first dose of poppy juice did Clint strip off his ruined vest and shirt; with a jar of medical salve, he just needed to find someone to smear the smelly stuff over the scratches.

“I’ll do that.” Andrew smiled at him and took the pot, turning Clint around. He hissed at the first touch of the cream but then the coolness of it spread, deadening the sting. “I’m good with my hands, remember.”

Yes, Clint remembered, and Andrew was another of those mistakes Clint could chalk up to inexperience being a Lord. He should never have allowed himself to find comfort with Andrew; sex wasn’t the issue – the man was very good with his hands and his mouth – but Clint hadn’t thought through the implications of the action. When his father had chased the scullery girls, all Clint knew was how much it made his mother cry late at night in her room.  He hadn’t noticed the jockeying for position, the way his father’s current lover used that as a weapon over the others. He needed to end the dalliance now, especially in light of his newly married status. Becoming like his father was something Clint was never going to do.

“You know I am married now,” he began, a good start, he thought.

“Indeed I do, Milord. Do not worry, I understand the situation well.” He laughed into Clint’s ear, long brown hair brushing over Clint’s shoulder. “I can be discrete.”

“No,” Clint tried one more time. “There’s no need to be discrete at all.”

“Oh, that’s very naughty of you,” he said, laying a hand on Clint’s arm and sliding along the muscles there. “An open marriage?”

“What I mean is I will have no more need of you … your services … hell, no more sex, okay?” Clint was never good at these kinds of conversations. “I will not be unfaithful.”

Andrew’s hand withdrew, and he sat the pot down on a table. His green eyes turned cold then softened. “I see. Yes, that’s what you have to do. But when you need me again, I’ll be here.” He sauntered off towards the few other servants with a beckoning backward glance.

“Damn it. That was clear enough,” Clint grumbled to himself.

“Maybe if you kept your laces tied, you’d have better luck,” Natasha suggested, coming up behind him. Again. Natasha was the best at it, but Carol and Jess had fair share of stealthy movements. He didn’t react at all, just sighed.

“Maybe if you got laid once in a while …” He returned her teasing in kind. They were a team, the four of them, all seemingly incapable of being happy in love. Natasha had never found a man she trusted enough. Jessica pined for someone who didn’t know of her feelings. Carol insisted those interested best her in combat. And Clint? Honestly, he didn’t think anyone could truly want him. His lands, his money, his strength, his skills … yes, those were valuable commodities worth buying. Lord Fury he understood; he wanted Clint for his abilities and the political bargaining chip the marriage gave him. Thane Coulson agreed for the same reasons; the strengthening of the holding and, as Fury had suggested, the challenge the manor represented. But love? Clint had no illusions about himself; he’d done questionable things to survive and he still bore the marks of many of them.

“Milord.” Rosenberg was breathing hard as he came to a stop. “Riders. Coming through town. Carol’s with them.”

Natasha shrugged when he looked at her; Carol was planned to escort Thane Coulson and not due back for a good week or two. “Andrew,” Clint called. “Bring me a new shirt, would you? I’ll be on the front steps.”

“Of course, Milord,” the young man replied. By the time they got outside, the six horses and their riders were cantering up the hill. Carol reigned to a stop first, sliding off the side of her horse and passing off the reigns.

“What’s happened?” was Clint’s first question. Different scenarios were unfolding in his head. “Did Fury double-cross us? What about Loki?”

“Clint.” Carol’s voice brought him up short. “May I introduce Philip Coulson.”

The man who stepped forward was not what Clint had expected. When he’d thought about Philip, and he had spent some long hours lying awake picturing him, Clint had decided he’d be slim, short, and pale from being indoors working with ledgers, fingers stained with ink. But here he was, as tall as Clint, leather pants clinging to his muscular thighs, not slim but muscular and lean as a whipcord. His brown hair fell over his forehead, the slightest wave, dulled by trail dirt. His age was only found in the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes and edges of his mouth. The most amazing blue eyes, the color of the ocean in the Outer Isles, widened in surprise as they surveyed Clint, running down to his feet and then back up to his face, lingering on his bare chest and the map of marks that told Clint’s history. The urge to cover himself was so strong that Clint’s hands raised on their own accord; he curled them into fists and forced them back by his side. His cheeks burned with the flush that crept into them.

“My lord,” Philip bowed. By the time his face came back up, he’d shuttered his emotions. “Forgive my unannounced arrival. I believe you may have a visit from the King within the week and we thought it best if I were here when he comes. Fortunately his entourage moves at a much slower pace and Lord Fury will insist upon offering his hospitality for a few days.”

“I see.” He did. The message was perfectly phrased. “I’m afraid we are not yet prepared for visitors, as you can see. I certainly hope the King brings tents and his own chef.” With a hand, he waved behind him, encompassing the house and grounds.  Those eyes took it in, the intelligence there noting all the damage and the work to be done. Then he smiled, and his face softened as he turned his attention back to Clint.

“I believe I can help with that. And, yes, he does bring his whole household. It’s quite a circus.”

“Milord, your shirt,” Andrew drawled. His fingers brushed against Clint’s as the shirt changed hands, and Philip noted the exchange.

“Thank you,” Clint said in dismissal, thankful when the young man backed away. He heard Jessica huff behind him and felt Carol’s disappointed stare. He wondered, yet again, why he was surrounded by people who knew better than he did and didn’t mind telling him on a daily basis.

“You’re bleeding,” Carol said. “Nat?”

“An attack on a small farm north of town,” she supplied, succinct as always. “Some sort of animal, a mother and cubs. I’ve never seen them before; much like a wolf, but bigger with short fur and long claws.”

“Brown and slick like an otter? Big eyes?” Philip asked. At Clint’s nod, he continued. “Probably mountain rugers. They live on the slopes, up beyond the tree line, thus the waterproof coat for the snow. Were you scratched? Wounds from their claws and teeth often get infected. Any break of the skin is at risk.”

“Do you know how to treat them?” Carol asked.

“Yes, assuming I have the right herbs and salves.” Philip nodded. “My mother was a healer.”

“I can also help,” the other unknown man offered, voice shy and quiet. “I brought my kit; I have dried verbena.” He nodded to Clint. “Bruce Banner, Clerk of the Desert Order. I’m here to validate your marriage.”

“See to Johnson first. His leg is worse.” Clint led the way into the hall, trying not to worry about the man following behind.

* * *

 

The main hall of the manor was good sized and had managed to avoid the worst of the damage. Aside from a good cleaning of the fireplace – and probably the flue as well –a new roof and new furnishings, there was little structurally needed here. Philip’s mental list grew longer with every glance at the empty walls; he’d have to start writing the items down soon or he’d begin to forget.  Taking another spoonful of his stew, he continued watching as people ate and laughed, more than a few questioning glances thrown Philip’s way on the main dais. The room was less than a third full, many open seats on the makeshift benches and rough-hewn trestle tables that had been thrown together. Not counting Lord Barton … no, he’d told Philip to call him Clint … and the three women, the hold boasted fifteen fighting men and women, all veterans. Of the others in the room, there were five squires, three banner holders, and a handful of camp followers who were playing at the role of servants. What Philip didn’t see were any of the townsfolk, no scullery workers, gardeners, or household maids. The stew, while certainly serviceable and filling, was basic camp food; he’d bet that there was no head chef. Most of those in the manor on the day of the attack had been killed, but the town had escaped with less damage, so there should be people with skills looking for work. Watching one particularly buxom young woman in a low cut gown settle onto the lap of a male fighter, wiggling generously and laughing at his straying hands, Philip had a pretty good idea of why they weren’t here.

“Johnson is looking well,” Natasha said. The red-head was seated on Philip’s left; she looked vaguely familiar, and he’d been wrestling with his memory all evening to no avail. “Lucky you and Clerk Banner were here, for both him and Clint.  We need to find a permanent healer.”

“I’m sure Lord Barton is working on that,” he said. Lesson number one of being a good steward: always give all credit to the Lord for good things and take the responsibility for the bad on yourself.

“You are going to do well here.” She tilted her head, a small smile playing along her red lips. “He won’t mind you taking the initiative as long as you keep him informed. One of things that makes him such a good leader; he knows when to get out of the way.”

“It seems to me that Clerk Banner might be swayed our direction.” Philip’s eyes settled on the man in question; he was seated at the other end of the dais beside Carol carrying on a quiet conversation with her. He’d been hiding since they’d arrived, displaying a talent to go unnoticed; there was a story there, Philip was sure, but for a man who’d chosen the solitary existence of a hermit, he certainly enjoyed the company and loved a good discussion. With the right lure, he was sure Banner could be talked into establishing his own workshop and apothecary somewhere closer, within the bounds of the holding.

A shout arose from one of the tables. Clint waved the knife he’d caught and flicked his wrist; it landed with a satisfyingly loud thunk between a fighter’s fingers spread on the table. Another cheer went up, and Philip noticed the young man who’d brought the shirt earlier lean in, his hand resting on the small of Clint’s back. A lump settled in Philip’s throat; he had no illusions about that part of the marriage, but the sight still bothered him. Some Lords took lovers, one or many, even those who were wed. A man like Clint, used to the looser restrictions of a mercenary camp and as handsome as he was, probably had a long line of those willing to share his bed, and Philip steeled himself to that fact. As long as the other men were discrete, he could manage.

But the image of Clint’s bare chest still hung in his mind. Barton was rugged, his body honed by war, taut muscles cast in relief, the lines of them like a picture in one of Philip’s tomes. He’d been half hypnotized by Barton’s every movement, the way his biceps flexed when he reached out. Blonde hair that needed cutting, and eyes … eyes like the changing sea, blue then green then grey then blue. He shook his head to clear it of such romantic nonsense that wasn’t going to help him tonight.

“He’s a good man,” Natasha said, watching the same scene as Philip. “But, unfortunately, he is still a man.” Her eyes twinkled and he realized she was teasing him.

“You do realize that I’m a man as well?” The banter took his mind off of the way time was winding down on the evening.

“Yes, so you are.” She broke off the heel of a loaf of brown bread and used it to dip into her stew. 

“And you want to know why, when someone offers to suck our dick, we become idiots?” he said in his favorite deadpan delivery. She coughed as she swallowed wrong then laughed.

“I knew I was going to like you.” She drank a long sip of wine to clear her throat. “Well?”

“Because it feels damn good.”

That got an even louder laugh and Clint looked up at them. A thumping started, flagons banging on the table, feet stomping on the floor and then the chanting started. “Bedding! Bedding! Bedding!” Philip couldn’t help but blush; Natasha laid a comforting hand on his shoulder as she stood.

“We, the Thanes of Lord Clinton Barton, claim the right of preparing the groom!” She shouted, her voice carrying to the very back of the hall. Roars of approval sounded, and Philip felt his anxiety slip a little, glad for her help. Rather than the whole group carting him to the bedroom and watching him undress, it would be only Natasha, Carol, and Jessica. Still nerve wracking but better. “Clerk Banner, will you accompany us?”

“Aye, I will.” He stood, offered a friendly smile to Philip, and followed them out of the hall, leaving the shouting for more ale behind them.

“I’m afraid rooms are limited in the manor,” Natasha said, leading the way. “Clint has the largest of the guest rooms and that will have to suffice. Unfortunately, it is on the same hallway with all of our rooms, so there will be very little privacy. The soldiers are bunked out in a wing of the stables, a solution that won’t last through winter but works for now.” She stopped in front of a doorway, and Philip understood what she meant. Doors lined the hallway and sound would carry easily. Inside, the room was small, room enough for a double bed, a fireplace with a tiny table and two chairs on either side, a wardrobe on one wall. The intimacy of it tightened his suddenly dry throat.

“This will do.” He found his hands unsteady as he reached for his belt.

“A gift from us,” Carol said, holding out a small parcel wrapped in brown paper.  “We thought it handy.”

“I did not expect …” he took the package, grateful they all ignore the way his hands clutched the edges.

“Open it. You can use it now,” Jessica encouraged. He untied the string and folded back the paper. Inside was a dressing gown, soft black velvet with purple trim. He recognized the maker’s mark on the collar, one of the best in the capitol. Underneath was a new linen night shirt, long enough to reach past his knees. “We thought it would help with privacy. We all wear night clothes now in case we bump into each other.”

“This is lovely. Thank you.” He couldn’t help the way his voice shook as he answered; he felt a swell of thankfulness for this small gesture.

“We’ll be outside. Knock when you’re ready, and we’ll send for Clint.” Natasha ushered them out the door then turned to him. “Remember. You know how to make him an idiot.” Laughing, she exited the room. For seconds, all Philip could do was stand by the bed, a silly grin on his face. It wasn’t as if he was inexperienced in these matters; he’d not been joking with Natasha about his brain going south when a wet mouth was on his cock. Truth was, though, he’d always hesitated about doing more than that. No logical reason just that the moment was never right. There’d been his first love, a young man so beautiful Fury’s bard Sal wrote sonnets about him; Philip had been ready but then his lover had been chosen and gone to court where a dozen wealthy Lords had more to offer.

He undressed with deliberation, taking each piece of clothing and folding it up neatly, placing them on the small stool by the wardrobe; his pack sat in the corner with his clean set for the morrow. His mail he carefully stowed in his pack, dagger tucked into the folds of his shirt and swords leaned against the wall. When he was fully nude, he laid the new nightshirt aside – it would only get in the way – and slipped into the robe. The inside was softer than the outside, and it was warm enough to chase away chills on future nights. Now, the fire was stoked and burning brightly, casting its warmth out into the room. He rapped on the door, and Banner was the one who stepped through.

“I need to ask you a few questions.” Walking to the table, Banner poured wine into one of the goblets there and handed it to Philip. “Drink this. It will help.”  He didn’t want to, but he found the first sip helped ease his parched throat, so he took a second then a third. “Do you enter into this union of your own free will?”

“Yes.” He knew the questions were to determine if he was coerced in any way. Too many horror stories of people forced into giving up their lands and fortunes to scoundrels who tricked them.  Even worse were fathers and Lords who sold their heirs to the highest bidder with no regard to their safety or desires.

“Do you understand that all you have -- money, land, knowledge, strength -- will be shared with Clint?”

“Yes.” Plus all the resources Fury would allow him to bring to bear to help these people.

“And do you understand that your loyalty now lies with House Barton, all previous ties broken as you form a new union?”

“Yes.” He was now Philip of Barton Manor.

 “Do you understand that the bonds of marriage are to provide for children and heirs, and do you agree to play your part in the creation of this household?”

“Yes.” Children. Philip had thought that raising Peter and Darcy would be his contribution, but now there was the possibility of new heirs.

“Good. I’ll ask Clint the same questions and send him in. I’ll be outside the door, waiting, to finalize the union.” Banner nodded then clapped Philip on the back. “From what little I’ve seen, you’re both good men. Tonight may be awkward, but you’ll get through it.” With that, he left Philip alone in the room with his now empty glass of wine. He thought about pouring another, but getting drunk wasn’t a solution even if it might make the whole effort easier. He heard them before Clint came through the door, holding onto his shirt and trousers to keep them away from the myriad of hands trying to take them off. The crowd pushed him through the threshold with a mighty cheer, and he slammed the door, lock clinking into place as those outside groaned and knocked before they retreated down the hallway. 

“Well.” Clint stopped, rubbed the back of his neck, took a breath, and tried again.  “Your robe is … nice.”

“A gift from your thanes.” Oh, gods, but this was difficult. What did he say? Should they just start?

“Natasha’s choice, I imagine. She has excellent taste.” Clint shrugged, still standing by the door. “The quarters are close here; we’ve all made adjustments. As usual, they are miles ahead of me.”

“They seem more than competent.” Philip wasn’t sure why they were having this conversation except that it delayed the inevitable. Silence spun out and they stared at each other until he had to say something. “Well, shall we?” He was proud that he maintained an even tone for the question. “Banner is waiting, as is, I imagine, any number of your men.”

“I’m usually better at this,” Clint gave a rueful laugh.

“I supposed I can start things off.” Philip was the one to close the distance; he caught the edge of Clint’s shirt and tugged it loose from his trousers. Dropping to his knees, he looked back up and saw those blue-grey eyes darken. Untying the laces, he freed Clint’s flaccid cock and gave an easy stroke with his fingers as it stirred with interest. With his mouth and tongue, he worked, feeling the way it grew and hardened in time to Clint’s little sounds of pleasure. Sliding his hands around, he clasped the curve of Clint’s ass and pressed harder, taking him deeper. Philip’s own cock grew heavy as he enjoyed the taste of Clint, the way he was so sensitive just under the flushed head, how he tensed his stomach muscles to avoid thrusting forward.

“Stop. You have to stop.” Clint finally sank his hands into Philip’s hair, tugging his head back. “I need you to stop.”

“I’m sorry.” He backed away, on his knees, sitting down on his heel. “I thought this might help …”

“No, I liked it. Too much. I was getting close.” He stood with his cock out, curled slightly up and leaking. “But we need to … I mean …” He ran a hand over his face. “Damn it, why is this so difficult?”

Philip stood up and stepped back. “Where do you want me?”

“Maybe we’re going about this all wrong.” This time it was Clint who closed the distance; he pulled on the tie of the robe, opening it and pushing it off to pool on the floor. Philip felt Clint’s eyes on him, like phantom fingers tracing down his chest, chased by heat in his body. Without a word, Clint’s hand reached out and made the touch real, calloused fingertips swirling invisible words that were trailed by little pulses of energy. When the caress ran the length of his cock, he sucked in a breath as the power coalesced in his groin and he moaned.

“What is your weapon? You’re so lean, long muscles.” Clint stroked and Philip was confused by the question until he realized Clint was asking what he trained with.

“Short swords.” A gasp of air as Clint’s fist closed around him, and he was close so fast. He let his hands curl around Clint’s waist, grounding himself in the other man’s strength, fingers tightening.

“Oh,” Clint jumped just as Philip realized he was griping the bandages. Philip jerked away and then they were staring at each other again.

“I’m sorry.” Gods, this wasn’t working, just a comedy of errors. “Let me check and see if it’s bleeding.”

“No need,” Clint argued but Philip caught the hem of the linen shirt and tugged it up. Clint flinched when Philip’s fingers touched his skin, catching on the edge of a long scar; he pulled, taking the shirt off and tossing it out of the way. Clint averted his eyes, but Philip pushed down the leather pants, baring Clint in the same way Philip already was. He checked – no blood – then Philip looked his fill. Muscles that cried out to be caressed darkened skin from the sun, arms that were sinew and veins, their strength evident. Curving just over the hip bone, a raised white crescent of a scar. Philip’s mind went blank and he stilled.

“Philip?” Clint asked, eyes shadowed with an old pain.

“Phil. Call me Phil.” He surged forward and kissed Clint, wrapped his hands around Clint’s neck and dragged him into contact, their bodies aligning as their lips met for the first time. Kisses were more intimate, crossed some sort of boundary; Clint turned them, pressed them back towards the bed until Philip hit the edge.

“Top or bottom?” Clint asked, breathy and low, the sound stirring the heat inside of Philip.

“I … I don’t know?” Philip couldn’t manage a lie, too caught up in the feel of Clint’s hands on his back, Clint’s lips on his neck.

“You’ve never?” Clint stopped kissing him, and Philip tightened his hold, afraid they would come to a halt yet again.

“Never, but that doesn’t matter now. Whatever you want. Just please, don’t stop,” he asked.

“Have you ever dreamed about it?” Clint pressed him; Philip blushed again, unable to stop the memory of those late night fantasies of the Archer from his consciousness. “Yes, I can see you have. Top or bottom?”

He didn’t want to answer; it was all far too blunt a conversation, but this wasn’t the ideal romantic situation. “Bottom,” he whispered, eyes squeezed shut.

“Okay,” Clint’ voice deepened. “Lay down for me.” Taking the hint when Clint nudged him, Philip crawled in the middle of the bed, stretched out on his back as Clint took an ornate pot from the bedside table, opened the lid and smeared his fingers with the fragrant gel inside.

“Now, tell me. Where, when, who … and most of all how.” He pushed Philip’s legs open, and his fingers slipped past his straining cock, lower, light grazes that grew into long, slow strokes.

“It’s embarrassing,” Philip protested, wiggling at the sensation as Clint ghosted over the sensitive area then began to rub his thumb harder. “Gods, you’re not supposed to speak these things out loud.”

“I’ll tell you mine about the librarian later, promise.” Clint smiled at that and pressed his finger in just a bit. Tight, so tight and it burned; Philip gasped for a breath and Clint eased back out. “Come on, Phil.”

“On a boat, I’m on a boat,” he groaned out as that finger slid in again, a little further, stretching and receding. “I’m in the King’s Navy, a captain and we capture this famous … pirate.” There was no way he was going to admit that it was Clint himself who held the main role in Philip’s fantasies. How mortifying that would be.

“Pirates. Not nearly as romantic as the stories make them out to be in real life. Still, I can see the attraction after hearing some bards’ tales.”  He was all the way inside, and Philip had to struggle not to tense up and push him back out. “So he offers himself to you as a way off out of prison?”

“No. I go down to his cell and tell him if he’ll … Gods.” The pressure was like the ache of overextended muscles when the second finger joined the first.

“If he’ll what? Keep breathing and relax.”

“If he’ll … suck me off.” It was easier if he kept his eyes shut, didn’t see the way Clint had to be looking at him, silly romantic he was. Digging his heels in, he tried, really tried to let the tension go when Clint added a third finger, but the banked power and heat were fighting with each other, anxiety pouring through him.

“So you let him go and he takes you up on the deal.” Clint was leaning closer now; Phil could feel the warmth of his body.

“N-n-n-no. He’s in the cell and …” Philip swallowed and whispered the rest. “Chained up. I make him do it there.”

“Ah.” Breath ghosted over his chest, and he cantered his hips up to meet the slow strokes that were forcing him apart. “Then he fucks you, right there?”

All he could manage was a shake of his head and a wavering inhale. “Later. Later, one night in my cabin, he comes back …”

“Phil. I think I’ve got this figured out. Roll over.”  Clint slipped his fingers out and Philip did as asked, moving onto his stomach, pillowing his head on his hands as Clint straddled him. Along the crease of his ass, he felt the weight of Clint’s cock glide up and back. When he tried to lift his hips, Clint’s hands circled his waist and held him down. “Reach your hands up and grab the spindles.” Opening his eyes, he saw the wooden headboard with decorated spirals, thick and heavy runners of wood, just the right size for his palms to curve around. As his fingers closed in, he felt something splinter in his chest, breaking free the tension in his gut and the power in his head. They flowed down to his cock, making it ache with need, over riding the discomfort he was feeling. “I want you to picture it in your head. Feel the rhythm of the ocean.” Clint slid back until the tip of his cock was bumping between Phil’s legs; fingers breached again but this time Philip let the stretch and burn be overcome by the friction of the quilt on his own cock and the firm pressure of Clint’s hands on his skin. “Does he hold you down?” His face buried in the bedding, Phil nodded in response. The intrusion was still new, unexpected, but then Clint twisted his hand and a jolt of pleasure rippled up Philip’s spine, more intense than any he’d felt before.

“Gods,” Phil breathed and bucked, trying to push back to get that feeling again. “That’s …”

“Yeah, that’s good, isn’t it? Makes you want more, want it harder and faster.” Clint’s fingers were gone, but then his cock was pushing inside slowly, thick and insistent. “Does he tell you that you want it? That he can tell from the way you move beneath him, how you angle up to receive his hard cock?”

He was being filled and it was nothing like he’d imagined even in his most intimate of dreams. Knees parted and Clint was almost all the way inside as the grooves on the spindles bit into his palms, sure to leave marks. “Yes,” he admitted. “But I didn’t know what it was like, didn’t …. Gods, Clint, are you going move now? I think I need …”

Clint pulled out and then slid back slowly. “I know what you need. You need to give me control, here, in this bed. I’ll take care of you, fill you up, and make you come so hard …” The easy thrusts were shock waves that multiplied the building energy, but Philip didn’t care. For once, his own pleasure overrode his fears.

“Yes, fuck.” This was just like his dream, this part where Clint took charge and made him do nothing but feel. “That’s it. That’s what I want.”

“I can do that.”

Philip let it happen, gave up and pushed back harder, meeting Clint as his thrusts grew faster and harder, internal sparks running up Philip’s back along his arms. The first touch of Clint’s hand on Philip’s cock was enough to ignite the whole conflagration, and he was coming, vision going bright, body shaking as he loosed all the energy into the wood, grounding it into the stone floor. When he spiraled back into awareness, Clint was lying beside him, chest heaving, eyes closed. Philip waited for his heart to start beating evenly again, trying to think of what to say.

“Librarian?” His voice was scratchy, and he wondered what sounds he’d been making to leave him hoarse.

Lifting up on his elbows, Clint smirked. “Libraries require silence and anyone can walk by.”

“Oh.” That confession brought ideas to Philip’s mind, but he tamped them down; sex might have made their marriage official but there was still so much to learn about each other. “Don’t we need to inform Banner?”

With a groan, Clint got up; he picked up the robe from the floor and tossed it over to Philip before he pulled on his shirt and pants, leaving both undone, leather hanging low on his hips. Waiting until Philip was covered, he opened the door and ushered the clerk into the room.

“I’m sorry; I just have to ask a few questions.” Banner unrolled the contract on the table and sat down a quill and ink. “Do you swear by the King’s power and authority that this marriage has been consummated as required in the Writ of Succession?” They both said yes. “Do you disavow your right to annulment?” Again, they answered yes. “Good, if you’ll just sign here.” They both did and then Banner signed as a witness. “I’m supposed to give you a homily on the sacred nature of sex and the marital bed, but we’ll just go with this: Marriage takes effort. Talk to each other. No one is perfect, so be willing to forgive mistakes. Compromise is the key to happiness. Sleeping around is never a good idea. Sex is a good thing and you should enjoy each other. That ought to take care of it.”

“That’s it?” Philip asked, surprised. He’d read about the lengths to which some clerks went to validate a marriage.

“Bloodstains or semen on the sheet are demeaning and old-school. No one can disprove your claim at this point and you’ve given up your right to argue for annulment, so why embarrass you?” Banner shrugged. “The Mayor has offered me a bed in his home, so I’m off to get some sleep. I’ll stay until the paperwork is all complete and we know when or if the King is planning a visit.”

“We need to keep him,” Clint said after he’d shut the door. “I’ll put a place for him on the list of things to do.”

“Speaking of things to do,” Philip responded; this was solid ground for him. “Where would you like me to start in the morning? I’ll need to get the lay of the land and all, but a set of priorities would make it easier.”

“Ah. I don’t know.” Clint ran his hand through his hair, already sticking up at odd angles. “The wall is first, but there’s so much.”

“The basics are always good. Food, warmth, a roof and four walls, safety.” It needed to be Clint’s choice; he was Lord Barton and his word carried more weight.

“Make sure we don’t starve or freeze this winter. Let’s start there.” Clint eyed the bed. “We can share rooms and make do with bare walls as long as we have walls.”

“I’m not averse to sharing, by the way. Done that many times. I do prefer the room colder with more quilts. And I like the right side, but will be happy with the left.”

“I wasn’t looking forward to the floor, so I can deal with that,” Clint yawned. “Best put on something though. A full night’s sleep is a rare thing around here; some people seem to think they have a right to barge in at all hours.”

“That I understand completely.” Philip picked up the long nightshirt still folded neatly. “I’ll tell you about my brother Peter sometime. He likes to climb in my window and talk about his current crush in the dead of night.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Trials and Old Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Philip begins getting to know the people of Barton Manor, runs into an old friend, and gets to see Clint in action. Too bad he knows this is the calm before the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I blame my daughter for the Theodore, William and Nathan. She's a big fan. 
> 
> I know, I know ... but Clint's arms!

“There is no way I can handle a visit from the King!” The thin man with skin the color of ebony waved his spoon at Jessica; she was less than impressed by the tirade of angry words aimed her way. “You promised me help and all I’ve got is a handful of lay- abouts and those boys. And the food here? Bland. Spices! I need spices!” Jessica saw Philip in the doorway first; the cook turned and his dark brown eyes widened.

“Don’t let me interrupt,” Philip said smoothly. “I just wanted to see about breakfast. Something smelled good.”  He’d hazard a guess that the cook was from the Eastlands, his head shorn of all hair and wrapped in a white cloth.  Tattoos ran down his neck, one a brightly colored pattern of swirls, the other the tail of a dragon that disappeared under the collar of his shirt. A dark band of black ink circled his left wrist.

“There’s porridge with raisins and some honey if you like, Milord. It’s plain, but filling.” He tipped his head and dropped his eyes, confirming Philip’s suspicion that the man had been an indentured servant at one time. In some part of the East, the poor sold themselves for contracted lengths of time; at the end, they would be freed and, in theory, earn a bonus to help them establish a new life. Of course, that all depended upon the owner of the contract, and the justicars often looked the other way at abuses.

“That would be perfect.” Philip held out his hand for the filled bowl and took the honey pot in his other.

“An early riser?” The cook asked. “Clint will be dragging in once the sun is up; I best get the coffee ready. Man is addicted to the stuff, the darker, the better. Would you like a cup, Milord?”

“Indeed I would, but I like mine more cream than coffee.” As vices went, coffee and wine and books were Philip’s favorites.

“Leche manchada? I can do that. Cream, we have.” He busied himself measuring out the ground beans; the aroma hit Philip’s nose, and he breathed in deep of the eye-opening smell.

“This is Dax,” Jessica said. “Best cook of the seventy companies. It was a coup when we talked him into joining us.”

“Tell the truth now, miasha. Clint won me in a card game.” Dax’s smile was wide and warm; he was quite handsome, some part of Philip’s brain registered. Not blonde haired, stormy blue-grey eyes handsome, but there was only one Clint Barton.

“Sounds like a story I’d love to hear someday.” Philip spooned up a bite; it was warm and sweet from the honey, but not very exciting.  “As to spices, I think I can help you with that. I know a Merchant who works out of the capitol, can get almost anything. He makes a run up this way every two months.”

“Cumin? Tumeric? I’d kill for some cayenne or ghost chilies. I send those boys into town, and they come back with naught but chickens and potatoes and oats.”  He shook his head. “White flour and tough cuts of beef. Nothing I could serve the King, that’s for sure. I made them a list for today, and they’ll come back with the same things.”

“Today is market day?” Philip thought about it for a moment; he had a hundred places to start here in the Manor, but there was something to be said for getting to know the townspeople and no better way than some shopping. “That sounds good to me. By boys, I assume you’re talking about the pages-in-training?”

Jessica snorted at that. “More like troublemakers-in-training, those three. They’re a handful.”

“Tell you what. Make me a list of spices you want, and I’ll send a letter off asking about the prices. In the meantime, I’ll see what I can do about a better variety for now.” Philip was already calculating in his head how much gold and silver from his stash to take with him. Best to start off paying up front and build a good reputation before asking for credit … and he needed to get to the books to see just what financial state the holding was in as soon as possible. “As to getting you help, that is top priority, but I wouldn’t worry about the royal visit. The King always brings his own chefs with him and only eats food prepared by their hands. Too many times that leads to a pissing match between the royal cooks and the cooks of the keep. Best to just let them have at it; we don’t have to foot the bill for his extravagances that way.”

“Ah,” Dax smiled. “I speak little English, yes? No understand, just cook.”

“Exactly.” Seems Clint surrounded himself with smart retainers; Dax had hit on the perfect solution. The King would be expecting a poor showing from the new and struggling Lord Barton. Why not use that to their advantage? “Now, what else do you need in the kitchen? I know about the missing silver; how are we set for pots and pans?”

It took close to half an hour and two cups of coffee before Philip was ready to go; the sun was over the horizon, and he spared a second to remember the way Clint had looked when he’d left him in bed, hair wild, face half-buried in a down pillow that he’d scrunched up between his crossed arms, the quilt caught around his hips. During the night, his shirt had ridden up, leaving a little bare strip of back with those delectable dips at the bottom of his spine. Philip had been so tempted to lean over and drop a kiss into each one of them, but he wasn’t sure of the reception, so he’d slid out of bed, washed with the tepid water that no one had changed from the night before, dressed, gathered up his dirty clothes to find out how laundry worked around here, and left the room. Even now, he had yet to see anyone moving other than Dax, Jessica, Carol, and the early change of guards. Natasha, he’d learned from Carol, was a night person, rarely showing herself until long after sunrise; there were rumors that she actually didn’t sleep which would explain how she knew everything about everyone. Clint would be in shortly, the rest of the troop, as well except for those who had the night watch, but the others, the ones Philip called camp followers, would sleep until well past noon. Tucking away the notion of meeting with all of them to discuss the issues, Philip rounded up two of the erstwhile pages plus a dog cart and headed off for the short but brisk walk into the town.

Most towns held weekly markets where locals brought their produce and products to sell and Frasierton was no exception. Three times, once during each season, there would be a bigger festival where other craftsmen and vendors set up stalls; people would come in from the outer farms and smaller villages, and there would be singing and dancing and all kinds of fun, according to Theodore and William, the two pages. Theodore was tall and bulky, a budding young warrior if ever Philip had seen one, shock of blond hair he’d cut into random hanks himself standing up at odd angles. He was an outgoing, friendly type, an easy smile on his face as he never stopped talking. William, on the other hand, was slight and dark-haired; he tended to let his friend ramble on, injecting every now and then, sometimes finishing Theodore’s thoughts. Only six months separated them in age and, according to the story that never seemed to end, they’d been together since before Clint and company found them, pickpockets on a Kingston street, bound for either an orphanage or prison, neither a happy prospect. They really didn’t remember a time when they weren’t a pair. The elusive Nathan, the third boy, had been nowhere to be found; Philip made a mental note to seek him out later.

He was pleased to find an already busy market area in the center of town, stalls overflowing this early with the best of the harvest. Zeroing in on an apple seller, he sighted some winesap that looked ripe and delicious. The woman behind the counter watched him approach and the gossip network began its work, sharing the news that the brand new married Lord of the Manor was here, just what Philip wanted. As soon as his interest became clear, the woman smiled.

“Apples are good this year. Make the best pies, if I may say so, Milord.” She was older, in her forties; a younger woman behind her, probably her daughter, bounced a baby on her hip. Both of them inclined their heads towards Philip.

“Indeed they do.” He picked one up, sniffed the winey aroma, felt the rough red skin. “Where are they from?”

“Our groves are north of here, near Grays House. Been growing apples for five generations now; Lord Barton used to come up when he was a boy. He and his brother would climb the trees, I remember.”  She smiled and passed a greenish-yellow apple each over to Theodore and William who tore into them with delight despite having had two bowls of porridge before they left. “About the same ages as these two, I reckon.”

“Gentlemen,” Philip prodded, giving them a stern glance.

“Thanks,” Theodore mumbled.

“Thank you,” William said with his mouth full.

“Let’s see,” he pretended to do some quick calculations even though he knew exactly how much he needed. “Let’s say a good half a bushel of the winesap for pies and an extra half of the pippins for eating.  Do you ever sell the bruised fruit?”

“You thinking dried apples or apple butter?” She picked up a Macintosh. “These are best for drying and the pippins and winesaps mixed make excellent butter or jam. We sell the dross by the bushel starting in the next week or so depending upon the maturation of the crop.”

“What price are we talking?” It was the first volley, and they both knew it.

“Well, mine are the best apples in the whole area, so quality comes at a cost, of course.” She rattled off prices that Philip knew were inflated for here, but were still far less than he would have paid closer to the capital, and waited for his reaction.

Wrinkling his forehead, he drew out the silence for a few seconds. “Well, that’s more than I expected, but maybe we could do ….” He offered almost half of what she had originally said, but tossed in a standing order for the bruised portion for the rest of the season.

Her eyes brightened, approval clear, and the daughter stepped back to give her mother room to haggle … and to pass along the news that the new Lord was not a pushover. The back and forth lasted four rounds before Philip pulled out his pouch and mentioned he was paying today. Numbers fell fast and they settled on a more than fair price by anyone’s estimation. As she filled a basket with their purchases, she said, “It’s been a pleasure, Milord. And may I say welcome to Frasierton.”

“Thank you …”

“Madge. Tell young Clint that I said hello and not to eat so many he gets sick.” She passed the full basket off to Theodore who ran off with it to put in the cart.

“I certainly will, Madge.”

“Oh, and Milord?” She called as he turned to go. “Hammond’s squash looks extra fine this year; he’ll do you right.”

That was the best stamp of approval Philip could get, and he knew it. “Thank you. Squash soup on the menu it is.”

Hammond turned out to be a bluff, balding man with a hearty laugh and some green acorn squash that would bake up nicely and could be used as bowls. He sent Phil on to the Dawsons who had frost-kissed sweet cabbages, and Martha, a young widow raising five kids on her own, who had artichokes and eggplants. From there, he spoke to the farmer who raised the best local lamb and checked on the standing orders for milk, butter, and cheeses, picking a few new types to try. Tucked back in a side street, he found some immigrants from the Southlands who had a selection of fresh peppers and garlic. He made sure to get their names for Dax, especially when they said they’d love to plant what he needed and bring their goods straight to the kitchen door. Herbs by the bunches, wheat flour, and even some different oils were all available.  Along the way, he wrangled Theodore and William, keeping them busy waiting on packages to be ready and toting them back to the cart.  Nothing he wasn’t used to; Peter and Darcy on a good day at that age were much more demanding. These two tended to rein each other in, whole conversations happening without a word between them.

Beyond the foodstuffs, he was learning about the community, listening to them, answering their questions. It was a mutual information swap completed in innocent queries and intentionally revealed half-truths. He heard more than once about the attack yesterday and the way Clint and the others rode to the rescue, relief evident that Clint was protecting them. Talk of the rugars led to other problems – a pack of gimlets, missing flocks, unexplained noises in the night, and roving wolves – and all sorts of theories for why it was happening including bad weather, a sorcerer’s curse, and a mountain dwelling ghost who demanded payments in form of music, his personal favorite. They were worried, still affected by the events of two years ago, and Philip believed they had every right to be. As much as he learned from them, they wanted to know about him. Rather than try to insist the marriage was a love match, he let them fill in the blanks, a story quickly emerging about Lord Fury making arrangements to help Clint take care of them by sending Philip. As he moved into the artisans section of the market, he heard he was already rebuilding the manor and the tale was growing with each stop he made. By the time they found themselves at the tanner’s booth, Philip had a good idea on names, relationships, families, and reputations of the whole town.

Theodore eyed a red and green braided bracelet as Philip ordered new jackets for all three pages, black with bright purple edging for livery, and a vest of thick, cured leather to replace the one Clint lost yesterday, measurements to be sent back down with one of the boys. The black leather was soft and supple, and, on a whim, Philip went for a fancier pattern, a formal jacket with the same purple trim. After all, he hadn’t given Clint a wedding gift yet. If he had it made sleeveless to show off Clint’s arms, well, no one needed to know that was the reason why. The tanner was happy to oblige, talking Philip into a jacket for himself by offering a nice discount and agreeing to send a bill. Philip’s pouch was growing light, but he still had enough to cover the costs; the willingness to take his promised payment was a first tentative step towards building trust.

The sun was high in the sky when Philip spotted a familiar curly brown head of hair; Banner was shopping at the herb seller, picking through the varieties offered.  “Ah,” Banner said when he saw Philip. “Quite a nice selection. Some very rare kingsfoil and excellent lavender.” He stopped to smell some rosemary before adding it to the stack of purchases. “I hear you’ve been busy this morning.”

“I’m a new commodity, it seems.” He kept one eye on the boys; they were getting restless standing around. “Have you had lunch, Banner? I saw some lovely meat pies just a street over.”

“The mayor suggested the apple and pork pasty. A local specialty. And please, call me Bruce.”

Philip looked around Bruce and saw a man pass with a steaming moon shaped pastry. Turning towards the boys, he held out a half-silver coin in each hand. “Theodore, I want you to buy two mugs of cider, and William, two of those meat pies you were drooling over. Whatever you have left, you can spend or keep.  After you eat, I want you to take the cart back to Dax before noon and get started unloading.”

“Yes sir!” Theodore said, snatching the coin.

“Yes, Milord,” William answered, taking his more slowly, turning it over, staring at it. Then they were gone in a flash into the crowd.

“You know they’re going to eat themselves sick with sweet rolls,” Bruce laughed.

“Maybe. William, I think, might save part of his, but they are growing boys, and they worked hard this morning.”

They spent a good five minutes picking out their pasty; the seller, a woman about Philip’s age with dark hair who never stopped moving, gave them a free mug of ale to wash it down despite Philip’s protests. She was bribing Clerk Banner to stay in town, she argued, not the new Lord. Banner had blushed at that, hemming and hawing a little before he said thank you and took the offering. Philip knew that Carol had seen to it that Banner was paid for his part in the marriage validation, but most clerks, especially those who lived alone in the woods, weren’t the wealthiest of men.  Then she added shredded cheese on top of the pasty still hot from the grease before she passed them over. Tables scattered around the fountain in the main square were filled to the brim with people eating or talking. An older male fiddler was playing a fast tune, accompanied by a woman on the lute, their voices mixing together for the verses of a song about a man who challenged the fairy king.  As they stood looking for an empty seat, a heavyset man with flaming ginger hair waved them over to his table squeezed into the corner beside the bakery.

“Bruce!” he called. “Come sit with us.”

“That’s Mayor Garrett,” Bruce said, hesitating, waiting to see what Philip wanted to do.

“Ah, good, the Mayor.” Philip smiled and nodded, leading the way through the crowd. “Just the person I was hoping to see.” He put the pasty and mug down on the table and sat down on the bench so the others could be seated as well.

“Lord Barton, it’s good so see you out and about this morning. I hope you found all that you were looking for.” Garrett was a big man, muscle more than fat, and he had green eyes that missed nothing. Young for such a position, or maybe just one of those people who looked years younger than he was, he looked to be in his early twenties. Philip, on the other hand, had been mistaken as an adult since he was fourteen.

“You have a thriving community here and quite a selection to pick from. I look forward to the Fall Festival in a few weeks,” Philip replied.

“This year’s is shaping up to be larger and even better. The Admiral’s Players have confirmed and McKennitt will be here on Saturday evening. The craftsmen list is growing every day.” Garret made no secret of his interest in Philip, looking him over. “We hope Lord Barton will attend of course, and perhaps be the judge for the games?”

“I’m sure he’ll be delighted.” Philip took a bite of his lunch; tender pork with crisp apples, just a touch of cinnamon and light gravy all in fried dough. “Oh, this is …”

“Wonderful, yes. Annamarie is the best. Learned everything she knows from her mother. She could run the town if she wanted to.” With a smile, Garrett sat back, tossing out the piece of information for free. “Her mother was the Chatelaine of the Manor.” He didn’t have to continue with the story; Philip already knew the ending. Carol had told him the story about the last stand, how the remaining thanes and retainers had barricaded the wall and stood their ground to give the townspeople time to flee; they’d all been killed, but their sacrifice had saved many other lives.

“Mayor,” Two men stopped by the table. “Markeson is up to his old tricks again. Got his kid running interference this time. He’ll listen to you.”

“You’ll need to be careful approaching her, though,” Garrett continued as he stood, just like they were in the middle of a conversation. “She’s worried about her daughters. I told her that things had changed, that you ran a tight ship, but she’s going to want to wait and see.”

“Please let the townsfolk know we have numerous positions to fill. Three days hence, in the main hall,” Philip said.  A big smile broke across Garrett’s face.

“Of course, Milord. I know many who’ll be there.”

“The man is unique, I’d say .Didn’t even ask, just told me about a cottage with a space for a workshop just outside of town,” Bruce offered, chasing a bite down with a swig of ale. “What did he mean about her daughters?”

“A fighting company is very different a manor household. She wants to make sure there are no … other expectations of the jobs,” he answered, phrasing the situation delicately.

“So sex isn’t a requirement to work there? I can see why that distinction would be important.” Bruce’s humor was quick and made Philip smile. There was something easy about the clerk’s company; they sat and ate, watching the people come and go in a companionable silence. Numerous stares were directed their way, but Philip was getting used to that.

“Did you see a tinker or a metalsmith?” Philip asked as he took his last bite.

“Two streets over that way,” Bruce pointed as they both stood up. “By the blacksmith’s place.”

“You’ll come to dinner at the manor? Apple pie’s on the menu.”

“At least you’re subtle about it.” Bruce nodded. “I’ll see you there.”

The tinker’s wagon was parked in the outer yard of the blacksmith’s work area, wooden benches weighted down with wares that ranged from iron skillets to delicate scrollwork on belt buckles. Chainmail hung from the rafters, silverware and goblets in the shop with the wide open door. The dark skinned man by the wagon was in deep conversation with a young woman and her besotted beau; she held a lovely pin in her fingers, turning it over and over, as the two men negotiated price. They settled far too quickly … the lover couldn’t keep his eyes of the golden curls and curve of the ivory face … but the price was fair. Philip waited patiently for them to conclude business, more than surprised to recognize the tinker.

“Philip Coulson!” Samuel tilted his head and grinned. “And here I find you much further north than I would ever have expected.”

“Stop playing coy, Sam. I’m sure you know more than I do about my change in status.” He gladly returned Sam’s hearty hug, glad to see a familiar face. “And that’s My Lord to you now.”

“Oh, married a day and already gone to your head.” Sam pushed Philip back and turned to shout over his shoulder. “Luke! Come meet the newest Lord Barton.”  The man who came out from behind the anvil, wearing only pants and a heavy canvas apron, was much larger than the lean Sam, powerful arms capable of swinging a hammer, face sweaty from the heat of the fire. “My cousin, Luke. Luke, Philip Coulson.”

“Milord,” Luke inclined his head. “Sam has told me how lucky we are to have you.” Closer up, Luke was even more impressive, muscles well defined and hands calloused and capable.

“I didn’t even know you had a cousin,” Philip felt a little caught out.  Twice, Philip had traveled with Sam, using the anonymity of the visiting Tinker to collect information and learn about problems. In all that time sitting on the front of the wagon, Sam had never mentioned any family.

“I’ve only been here just over a year now. I came … after,” Luke said, not needing to finish the sentence. “Town’s done right by me. I get a good trade and even have time to meddle with some more decorative work. Mighty thankful for the opportunity.”

“Luke’s strong, no question, but he’s also got a deft eye. Ladies in other towns are starting to request his work when I come through.” Sam playfully slapped his cousin on the back. “You should order some for the Manor. I hear you might need replacement items.”

“You heard that did you?” Philip narrowed his eyes; Sam somehow always knew every detail. If he wasn’t so handy at fixing things, he’d be an exceptional spy fulltime instead of just on an as-needed basis.

“Seems the Frasier silver disappeared during the destruction of the manor. Or it up and walked out during the fight. One or the other.” Damn it, Sam knew something. “I have some basic utensils I can sell you now, but Luke here could make you a set that you’ll want to pass on to your children once you two love birds chose some.”

“I’d be honored to make whatever you need.” Luke glared at Sam who fell silent but kept grinning. “Serving pieces, spoons … and I make high quality chainmail too if you need some. I’ve been helping outfit the guard for Thane Danvers.”

“Actually, I have two lists. The first one,” Philip gave it to Luke, “is what we need as soon as possible. Some of the copper can be replated but it’s in constant use so we’ll have to rotate what we send. The second list is longer term; Lord Barton would pick the design and have final say, of course.”

Luke handed the first list to Sam who scanned over it. “Between the two of us, most of this we can have delivered by this afternoon.”

“I can have samples by early next week,” Luke offered. “Sooner if need be.”

“Next week is fine.” Philip was just glad things were moving as smoothly as they were.

“I see you’ve found the best armorer in the area,” Natasha said from behind him. Even Sam jumped at her appearance, and Sam was very aware of his surroundings. “Pots and pans for Dax? He’ll be so pleased, and I’ll be happy to hear the end of his griping.”

“Back again, Thane Romanov? Tell me you haven’t brought more mail for me to mend. I have a reputation to maintain, you know, and you manage to find new ways to challenge me.” Luke’s narrowed gaze was enough to give most men pause, but Natasha simply sauntered over to the table of wares and smiled.

“Nothing today. I came to say hello to your cousin and see what he’s picked up in his travels.” Natasha was just as eager to hear what Sam had to tell. Spy indeed, Philip thought. “And I’m looking for Lord Philip here. Thane Danvers has an appointment with him this afternoon.”

Philip knew nothing about an appointment, but he wasn’t going to let Luke or Sam know that. Second rule of a good steward, always pretend you have all the information. “I was just about to invite Sam and Luke to the Manor to join us for dinner.”

“Perfect!” Sam declared despite Luke’s obvious misgivings written on his furled brow. “I have new stories to tell from my swing through the foothills and northern reaches of Stark and Barton lands. And I’d love to meet the man who captured Philip Coulson.”

Another group of customers wandered in, one lugging a plow’s head and another with some scissors and knives to be sharpened, so Philip followed Natasha out of the yard and back towards the manor, speaking to those he remembered and anyone who spoke to him, nodding to others, aware of Natasha’s growing amusement. She didn’t speak until they were out of the city proper and on the long curving road that lead up the hill.

“So, it is true. Sam knows everyone.”

“He often circles through Tarian holdings. A good tinker is an important man to know.” Philip agreed, certain Natasha was aware of Sam’s many other attributes. “His father was a handy man to know; Sam was lucky to inherit both his father’s moral compass and his mother’s brains.” He followed as she veered off to the left, moving not to the Manor but towards the practice grounds. “Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

“To test your mettle, Philip Coulson. Members of the company have to be able to hold their own and serve in various capacities. Carol wants to test your abilities, see what training you need.”  Natasha was deadly serious, no joking tone in her voice. “These are not the soft lands near the capital. We can all die at the end of a set of claws as easily as a sword around here. Carol takes her job as head of the guard seriously.”

He could only answer with a curt nod, her blunt words welcome. “I am more than capable of protecting myself, but I understand the need to show that to others.” His eyes surveyed the mountains in the distance, clouds collected around the uppermost slopes, shrouding the heights in mist. “Some are aware of the danger growing closer to the Midlands.”

“The people here need protecting; they’re the front line of the coming war,” Natasha agreed.

Philip started to answer, but he was distracted as the practice field came into view. Half a dozen targets were set up and archers were taking aim and firing, not from a standing position but at a dead run; they started forward in a sprint, closing the distance, firing as they went, stopping within five feet of the circle. He’d never seen anything like it.

“Watch your footing, Mikal!  You trip and you’ll find an arrow in your throat faster than the sword in your gut. Peters, get that quiver strap fixed before you hurt yourself.” Clint called out orders to a few others, praising them all for their accuracy; Philip was surprised to see how many of the arrows had hit their targets, albeit not in the center, but in battle any wound could buy time and throw off an opponent. “We’re going to try the roll and shoot again. Three at a time.” The guard, all of them except for the wounded Johnson who sat on the sidelines, Jessica and Carol included, groaned and complained but they lined up, bows at the ready.

“They all shoot?” Philip asked Natasha.

“We train on all weapons, but each has two specialties. Depth is important in a company this small,” she answered. “I assume you brought your own weapons; shall I send one of the boys to fetch them?”

“If you would. They’re in my … our room.”

She called Theodore over from where he was helping retrieve arrows and sent him up the hill. Philip saw the leather bracelet dangling from the boy’s wrist and pretended not to notice when Theodore tucked it up under his cuff.

“Show us how it’s done again, Clint,” Jessica asked, her voice rising above the others. “One shot I can see, but three?”

Clint glared at her, but he couldn’t keep the smile off his face. “You want to bet on that?”

“A silver says you can’t make more than three,” she shot back, and a quick bidding war ensued, the pot growing quickly as others called out their bets. Carol took six, the highest number of the batch.

“If I get seven, the pot’s mine?” Clint asked. Jessica nodded and the company murmured their disbelief.

Clint turned and Philip got his first good look today at his husband. Blonde hair fell over one eye, skin tanned in the light of the afternoon autumn sun, quilted vest belted around his trim waist, arms left bare but for an arm guard on his right and a shooter’s glove on his left hand. As he stepped to the line, Clint shook his shoulders, loosening his stance; his eyes closed briefly as he took in a long, slow breath and released it, easy, his hawk-like stare on the target ahead. Extending his left arm, he drew the string with his right hand – and muscles flexed and shifted along his forearm, up through his biceps, shoulders straightening and neck exposed as he sighted down the line of his draw.

Lust sucker punched Philip in his gut, driving every bit of air out of his lungs and draining blood from his head right into his cock at the sight of those arms.  He fought the moan that came from the back of his throat, biting his lip hard enough to make it bleed to keep the sound inside.  No way he could stop the flush that spread up his chest and into his face as memories of the night before rose in his mind’s eye. Those hands wrapped around his body, the feel of those arms holding him down as Clint fucked him. He’d never felt anything as intense as this, not for anyone. The power of the emotion called to the energy banked inside, stirring it up as well.

Then, Clint moved, and Philip forgot to breathe all together. In the span of one heartbeat, Clint drew two arrows … two … and they flew towards the target, one after the other, in the time he took one step. Between step two and three, two more arrows; Philip thought only a mechanical crossbow could fire that fast, much less a longbow, but Clint made it look easy, tucking one arrow in as quickly as the string reset, before the vibration of the one before it stopped. Mesmerized by Clint’s body, the way his muscles bunched and released, how he flowed from one movement to the next, Philip saw him dip and go down, tucking his head and protecting both bow and quiver, shoulder not even touching the ground, his body flipping over. Arrow number five was notched and ready before a foot came down; Clint fired it without even looking at the target, the sixth following hard on its heels, gone just as Clint was upright. Just one more step remained before the finish line; two arrows drew back together, flew straight and the company erupted in cheers as Clint pivoted on his heel and gave a grand bow. Philip couldn’t take his eyes off of Clint’s body, his smile, or his arms. What he’d just seen was impossible; he understood the mechanics of archery, had read many books on it thanks to his obsession with a legendary archer, and he knew there was no way anyone could do what Clint just did.

“Breathe, Phil,” Natasha murmured. Blinking, he tore his eyes away and looked at the target. The eight arrows spiraled out from the dead center in a perfect seashell design.

“Fuck,” Phil whispered, so hard the seam in his pants was tightly uncomfortable. 

“He’s showing off for you, you know,” Natasha confided. “Still, that’s the best I’ve seen him in a long while. Let’s go on over and put you out of your misery, shall we?”

* * *

 

It started as an itch in his collar, right at the base of his neck, the tiniest inconvenience that made him want to scratch as he watched the company run through their drill one more time. He shrugged, moved the neckline of the quilted vest he was wearing, but the sensation only grew until it was an awareness like a physical touch, as if someone was caressing the nape of his neck. Some of the men believed Clint had eyes in the back of his head, and that wasn’t all too far from the truth; his ability to see in a wider arc, sharper, even in the dark, was a fact few people knew. He knew when he was being watched, but this was different, more intimate; the strangest thought that someone was thinking about him surfaced. Then Clint saw Natasha and Philip standing just down the road and that knowledge made the tingle become full blown arousal.

He paused, took a deep breath, and let the song of his bow sing to him as he pulled back the string; he felt his muscles vibrate in harmony like they always did, a two-part rhythm that fit together like the arrow notched onto the string. Only this time, there was another note, deep, the bottom of the chord, so faint he could have dreamed it. He shifted his weight, his heart slowed, matching the thrum of the string … and then pushed off, the first two arrows gone before he breathed again, focused not on the target but the point where the notes came together to make a whole song. The world spun around him, not the reverse, and he reached out for the new tone, drew it in, and the last two arrows flew to the conclusion.

 What exactly had just happened, Clint couldn’t say, just that he was suddenly consumed by thoughts of Philip watching him. He barely knew the man (pink lips around his cock, moist heat, strong pull as he slid back), had just met him the day before (tongue delving, sweeping over his teeth, tangling and retreating), and there was no reason to worry about what Philip thought (so tight, so good, hands extended, gripping the headboard as moans cascaded out of his mouth). He had to shake himself to clear his head; Carol was slapping him on the back and the others were all talking at the same time. Jessica was grinning and he knew he had to say something.

“What’s the take, Jess?” He asked.

“Fourteen silver, milord,” she answered, her not so subtle way of reminding him of his new position.

“Tell me, Philip,” he tossed back over his shoulder “What will fourteen silver buy us for dinner?”

“I’ll send word for a casket of that lovely honey hard cider Madge makes. Should go well with the apple pie Dax is making for desert.”

The others roared their approval as Clint turned to find Philip, his face flushed, eyes darkened even greener with lust. The warmth spiraled, circled its way down Clint’s spine in response.  “I think it’s your turn, Philip.”

“Where do you want me?” Philip eyes widened slightly as he realized what he’d said.

“Here’s good,” Clint couldn’t stop himself from answering.

“Swords first?” Philip tried to continue but fell silent.

It was Carol who stepped in. “How are you with a bow? We can start with that until Teddy gets back.”

“Passable, but after that display, I’m afraid I can’t measure up. Better with a crossbow than a longbow,” Philip admitted. Carol nodded and a black-haired female fighter picked one up off the rack and passed it over. A well-used crossbow, tiller oak and crank worn with a smooth action, it fit easily in his hand. Walking over, he lined up for a target, took a stance and lifted the bow.

“Hold,” Carol said. “Clint?”

This was their usual method of testing; she’d defer to Clint’s opinion on the bow, Natasha’s on hand-to-hand, and Jessica’s on strategy and style. Carol was the best swordsman, but she was smart enough to know to rely upon the others’ strengths as well. So he circled Philip, checked his body position, nudged his elbow up higher, and straightened his shoulders before stepping up behind him, leaving barely an inch between them as Clint sighted down the tiller. Close enough to feel the heat of Philip’s skin and to sense the rise and fall of his chest. “Classical position, three/two hold … you learned from a professional, probably from the capital. Best Fury could find, eh?”

“Captain of the King’s Guard. Kenneth, not Donaldson,” Philip admitted. From here, Clint could see Phil’s Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallowed, track the tiny bead of sweat that rolled along Phil’s jaw.

“Go on, let’s see how you shoot.” He didn’t move back, hoping he was as distracting to Philip as Philip was to him. Philip huffed, cranked the string back, loaded a bolt and took his time aiming before he fired. The bolt hit the center circle, not in the exact middle, but a good first try. “Again.” He trailed a hand down Philip’s arm, corrected the horizontal line, and let his fingers brush Philip’s bare wrist. The second shot was close to the first, and the third as well. “You lead to the left; ever shot with your lens on?”

Philip looked surprised. “No. I mean, I assumed I wouldn’t have them in battle.”

“True, but if you were on a battlement as support, they might mean the difference between wounding and a kill shot," he suggested as he turned to Carol. “Crossbow is up to standards.”

“Okay, let’s see how you are on swords.” Carol had her sword out and stepped into the middle of the field; all the others had gathered on the side and people were coming out of the Manor, a few even wandering up from town to watch. Theodore had returned, Philip’s matching set of short swords in his hands. Clint went to stand by Natasha, a tangled knot of arousal and anxiety in his gut, as if he could sense Philip’s own nerves despite his unflappable demeanor. Watching as Philip took off his jacket and shirt and shrugged on a quilted vest for protection, Clint could hear the undercurrent of excited murmurs. The swords he drew out were well-used, not just show pieces, and the way Philip carried himself showed all the hallmarks of a seasoned fighter. As Carol took her place, a hush fell as they all waited.

Sparring was not the same as real fighting. Clint had seen many a person who knew all the correct moves and could take all the points in a match, but there were no rules in battle, no applause for style, just being the first one to strike and the last one alive. Carol never approached training the way fancy instructors did; she lashed out, not a feint, but a swing with strength behind it. Philip countered with one sword, bringing the second around underneath, aiming for Carol’s midsection … and the battle was joined. Carol was power, harsh strokes that drove weaker opponents backwards, wearing them down until they made a mistake and left an opening. Philip was fluid movements, two places at once, swords flashing, and hypnotic. He kept the fight on his own terms rather than letting her set the agenda. Carol took a step, changed her strategy, pulling back and going on defense, and they fell into testing each other, trying new techniques to see the response. At a point, Carol laughed.

“Fury truly has someone to teach Florentine?” she asked.

“I preferred dimacheraeri though,” Philip answered, and he went on the attack, broad overhand strokes that needed both Carol’s sword and her buckler to deflect. Sweating now, no talk, they got serious, and Clint had trouble following the trading blows. He held his breath as they moved across the field, seemingly intent on killing each other. Focusing in on Philip, Clint was mesmerized by the effortless way the man moved, so graceful and fluid … and his brain immediately pictured ways to use that talent for more pleasurable goals. His cock hardened as he let his mind spin a little fantasy with those swords and Philip’s naked body. Then it was over, Carol’s strength not lagging; Philip stepped back and lowered his swords.

“Oh, thank the gods,” she laughed between breaths. “I thought you wanted to keep going. Definitely rated for combat with my full support.”

Natasha whispered. “I almost came just from watching that.”

“You and Carol both, I imagine.” Both women found skill arousing, but they were especially drawn to men who respected their strength as well.

Philip was surrounded by well-wishers, and Clint stayed back. All morning Clint had heard Philip’s name; he’d pretended to be asleep when Philip woke, playing coward to avoid an awkward morning conversation, waiting to rise until after the sun was up. First stop, the kitchen and Dax was singing, happy to fill Clint in on the new pots and pans and spices Philip had promised.  Then he’d come across a despondent Nathan, upset that he’d missed the chance to go to town with the others. Clint’s next point of order was to ride another section of the wall, checking the foundations and marking the worst damage; for a bit, his morning was quiet and normal, but then Jessica joined him with Carol’s plan for the afternoon’s training with Philip. Lunch was more than the usual chunk of bread and cheese; Theodore and William had returned, full of stories about their adventure, sugar from sweet rolls clinging to their worn tunics. And yet none of it had prepared Clint for watching the man he’d married stand toe-to-toe with the best damn swordswoman Clint had ever seen and hold his own. Hell, Clint would be hard-pressed to defeat Carol if it ever came to that; he’d have to go for the distance shot and hope she didn’t get within weapons range. Philip, on the other hand, wouldn’t win any awards with a bow, but his two-handed fighting style was versatile and elegant … and sexy. Even now, Clint was stirred up, and he knew he was staring at Philip’s bare arms, thinking of that sweaty neck beneath his lips

“Oh please,” Natasha sighed. “Come on.” She caught his arm and made her way through the crowd; Philip looked his way and Clint almost stumbled at the intensity of the desire there. “I think we can wait until tomorrow for my chance,” she said to cover the rather awkward moment of silence. “Clint said you needed to speak to him about the ledgers and accounts?”

It took a few seconds for Philip to process that statement. “Yes. Assuming you want me to help with those? I’d be glad to, of course.”

“Help? No, you can have them!” Jessica replied. “I’m more than happy to pass those wiggly lines off to someone else.”

“Jess is good with numbers, but not so good with sitting indoors for hours,” Carol supplied, grinning fondly at the black-haired woman. “Natasha has been handling the contracts and other official missives.”

“A task I won’t miss either,” the red head proclaimed. “Philip can get you to pay attention to the details, and I won’t have to threaten to kill you quite so often.” She nudged Clint with her shoulder.

“Thank you, ladies, I think we can manage from here.” Clint tried to see the humor in the situation; at least Philip was getting bullied by them as well. “Shall we?”

Stopping to pick up his shirt and jacket, Philip carried them with his sword belt as they started to the manor. The training yard was a meadow at the bottom of the rise; the remains of other smaller outbuildings wound around the small hill. A guardhouse where the men used to barrack in a dozen or so rooms. A gardener’s cottage, storage for the stables, and even a small chapel were little more than rectangles of fallen stones.

“I know some architects and stone masons who would be interested in the work. If you wish, I could contact them to come give us an appraisal. The guardhouse, the roof of the main hall, weatherproofing the existing parts of the house and the stables would be first priority, unless you think otherwise.” Philip was always so tentative, Clint noticed, deferring to his judgment. It was a shame that Clint knew next to nothing about what he was doing.

“You don’t have to do that,” he told Philip, slowing down to turn towards him. “You’ve run a large holding, know what to do, how to make sure it’s done well. That’s all I ask.”

“It’s important for your company and the people here to know you’re the Lord of the Manor,” Philip replied. “I’m not one of them; they want to respect you and are grateful you’ve returned.”

“Natasha would have told me to buck up and be a man. You’re much more eloquent about it,” Clint laughed since both amounted to the same piece of advice.  “She likes you, by the way. I think she’d even consider having sex with you.”

Philip’s eyebrows rose at that; Clint already liked poking at Phil’s self-control. “Unfortunately, as much I find her to be a lovely woman, I’m more of a cock man, myself.”

“I think I got that last night,” Clint said with a slow smile.

He wasn’t sure who made the first move, who grabbed who and dragged them inside the apothecary hut with its walls and half roof. They were walking one moment, and then they were entwined, mouths connected, tongues sliding in, hands splayed on backs, hips snug against hips. The shock of cock slotting next to cock, friction sending little sparks of lust, overwhelmed Clint; he needed, needed to touch, to fill, to release. The heat in his groin exploded as Philip’s hands settled around Clint’s biceps, squeezing tight as he arched up and ground his cock alongside Clint’s.

“I need … I need …” Philip was groaning into Clint’s mouth then Clint’s knee came up between Philip’s legs and he rubbed shamelessly against the leather.  Sparks traveled down Clint’s arms; he grounded his hands on Philip’s shoulders, pushing him back against the rock for leverage, and they were a circle, clicking closed, containing the passion between them. It flowed back and forth, building quickly, hotter, stronger until Clint could hear it again, the hum of tones in harmony.

Philip bucked, his head falling back against the wall and a pulse of energy slammed into Clint. He whispered “Phil” against the pale expanse of neck, just before he came, his climax intense and quick. As he came back to himself, he dropped his hands and link was broken; he could hear distant voices outside, the sounds of steel clashing on the practice field.

“Sixteen,” Philip said. “You’d think I was still sixteen. Someone could have heard or seen us.”

“That’s why it’s exciting,” Clint laughed, stepping back and avoiding a broken table. “The fear of getting caught. Although I really don’t have that many pair of clean pants, so next time we should try to get naked.”

“Oh, laundry. That’s something else I need to check on.” Philip tried to cover the obvious stain with his vest.

“Let’s start with the books, shall we? That’s bad enough for one day.” Clint hated bookkeeping, truly hated it. Well, at least he’d had gotten off twice in the last 24 hours, so staring at little numbers on a page would be bearable for a bit.

“If it helps, there’s squash soup and lamb for dinner?” Philip offered.

“Apple pie and Dax’s lamb?” Clint thought about it. “Yes. That just might do.”


	5. Itches and Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint's unease is building, Philip is dreaming, and there's an attack on a village.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm using family names here ... my mother is Scots Irish so I'm mining relatives for naming rights. :)

The Hall smelled of cinnamon and roast lamb; Clint looked out over the people assembled there as Theodore and William circulated around the tables with laden platters of food. Nathan dashed about with a pitcher, contents sloshing over the top in his haste. Dax had just looked in, checking on the progress, and he’d been smiling from ear-to-ear. Taking another spoonful of the brilliant orange soup, Clint carved out a piece of the squash from the side just as Theodore set down a fragrant dish of carved meat and roasted vegetables.

“Dax is back in his element,” Natasha said from her place on Clint’s right. She always sat on his right to free his dominant left hand in case of an attack, covering his weaker side. “All we need is some pita bread and it’s like being back in the islands.”

“I’ve never been that far south,” Philip said from Clint’s right, slicing into his portion. “I’ve read about the outer islands, but nothing speaks about the delicious food.”

“The food in Juraz is so hot, only milk will cool your mouth,” Samuel offered from his place on the other side of Philip. “Ghost chilies, tiny little red peppers, they use. Saw someone rub his eyes after touching one. He cried for two days.”

“Dax asked for some of those. Thanks for the warning.” Philip was smiling at Samuel, open and friendly, clearly at ease; his blue-green eyes were warm as he looked at the other man, and a little spark ignited in Clint’s brain. After they’d cleaned up earlier, Clint had gone back to talk to Carol about guard schedules, leaving Philip in the study with a stack of red ledgers and a long list of messages to pen. When Clint came down for dinner, feeling quite content, almost like he was beginning to get his first clue on this new life, he’d been surprised to see Samuel and Luke. Banner had been welcome; the man a quiet presence despite the fact Clint should be embarrassed around him; there was something about the clerk that made him fade into the woodwork and go unnoticed. The others had been nothing but polite and respectful; Clint quickly realized that Samuel was one of Natasha’s informants, and Luke was the blacksmith who was keeping their armor and weapons in the best condition they’d been in years. Still, the familiarity between Samuel and Philip was unexpected and, if Clint was honest, a little troubling. How much did he really know about Philip Coulson?

“I’ve known Phil for years; I can tell you all his secrets,” Samuel had said as they sat down at the table. “Trust me, you’re a lucky man, Lord Barton. Phil’s one-of-a-kind.” Clint had smiled in return and laughed when Philip told a story about Samuel, a pretty young lady, and an iron skillet. But an itch settled between his shoulder blades, distracting him from the delicious food in front of him.

“I’m heading north for a few weeks before winter sets in,” Samuel was saying. “I’ve got a bolt of yellow silk for Melinda McCarter and new pipe work for Leo Huskey’s latest invention. Plus, Old Man Singer always buys unusual books, and I found a trunk full of the strangest texts at an estate sale; I promised him first choice.” Clint took a bite of his lamb and focused in on the information rather than the casual tone, pushing the strange ache away.

“Melinda’s still wearing yellow?” He remembered her from his youth; the McCarters were one of the oldest retainers in the holding. There had been a McCarter at the founding of Frasierton, and they had been the first family to renew their oath when Clint took the title of Lord. Richard, the current Laird of the clan, had ridden down that first week with his two oldest sons, stayed a few days, and drank all the ale Clint had on hand before he headed back to his home.

“A McCarter never forgets,” Samuel agreed.

“Yellow?” Philip asked.

“When Melinda married Richard, his mother took an instant dislike to her. That’s McCarter tradition, I understand; the worst mother-in-laws. Melinda’s from a wealthy family near the capital and she is short, round, and the sweetest woman anyone would want to meet. First winter festival, her mother-in-law gave her the ugliest yellow satin dress, knowing it wouldn’t flatter her. Melinda wore it with pride and took to wearing yellow all the time, smiling and being as happy as you please. Dame McCarter never forgave her, but she eventually stopped bothering Melinda.” Clint cleaned his plate and thought about a second helping, then decided to wait on the pie.

Natasha said, “Sounds like a woman after my own heart.”

“Are you planning a progress, milord?” Samuel asked. It was tradition for a new Lord to visit his retainers within his first year, but most of them didn’t inherit a hold with so many immediate needs to oversee.

“Eventually,” Clint hedged. He really hadn’t thought that far ahead. “Spring at the earliest. The roads can be treacherous in winter.” The itch was spreading up into his neck, causing an ache at the base of his skull.

“We’d appreciate it if you let us know any issues you run across,” Philip said smoothly. “Are you coming back this way or heading on to Stark territory?”

“Stark has invited me to winter there, but I’m thinking of staying with Luke, helping out with some commissions.”

Luke looked up from his conversation with Jessica at the mention of his name. “You can go on to Stark’s. I know you enjoy the use of his workshop. I’ll be fine.”

“You’d be welcome here,” Philip offered. The pain bounced up to Clint’s temples, and he winced.

“Pie!” Theodore brought out the warm slices and began placing them in front of everyone. Glad for something to do, Clint ate, the comforting taste a reminder of his youth, days spent climbing trees and gorging on the crisp fruit. The happy memory settled him, and he polished off the desert without speaking, the conversation flowing around him. Twice, Philip’s elbow bumped his – he was right-handed to Clint’s left – and each touch jostled him with little bounces of energy. Pushing his chair back, Clint rose and walked down the line of tables. He stopped to chat with Rodriguez who had already finished her second piece of pie; the woman could out drink and eat most of the men as well as out fight them. She was magic with a quarterstaff, creative and very loyal. Everyone was in high spirits; good food would do that, and Philip had made it happen in just one day. Glancing up, he caught sight of Philip, his head bent towards Samuel’s. With an absent gesture, Philip pushed his hair out of his eyes, and Clint saw the sparkle in those blue-green depths as he laughed at something Samuel was saying.

“Only one slice?” Andrew was asking, drawing Clint’s attention back. He was holding out a pie tin with one last piece. “After that display this afternoon, you deserve it.”

For a second, Clint thought the man was referring to what had happened in the apothecary (hands wrapped around his arms, hips sliding together) then he realized Andrew meant the archery field (a distant echo of a simple melody that faded quickly). “I grew up eating pie, remember. Our cook, Petyr, used to make these small handheld fried pastries this time of year, sprinkle them with sugar, and I’d steal them while they were still too hot to eat.”

“Burned fingers? Some things are worth it.” Andrew settled back, his shoulder brushing along Clint where he stood behind the bench. The throb in his head was back and the pain must have shown because Andrew looked up, concerned. “Your head?” He leaned in, a hand stroking Clint’s thigh. The ache got worse, seeping into this chest, tightening, making it hard to breath. “Shall I get you something? Or do you need to lie down?”

“Clint.”  Natasha’s hand was guiding him by the elbow, back towards the head table.  “Stop being an idiot,” she hissed into his ear when they were clear of the crowd. “For the gods’ sake, you are determined to undermine any chances you have for happiness, aren’t you?”

He blinked at her. “What are you talking about?”

“If you have to listen to your dick, at least don’t be so obvious. Keep your lover out of sight of your husband.” Natasha pitched her voice low enough that only Clint could hear.

“I am not …” Pain lanced through his head, and he closed his eyes, trying to will it away. “I didn’t mean …”

She caught his chin and forced his head up, green eyes staring intently, seeing right inside of his skull and laying bare all his emotions. “Something’s wrong. Let’s get you somewhere quiet. I’ll make your excuses.”

It was easy to let her lead him, to not focus, just follow. He walked until he felt the cool air of night, the only light glowing from the window and open door behind him. The change in temperature helped; he’d been hot, just now noticing he was sweating. A few deep breaths and he started to feel better. Natasha eased him down onto what was left of a stone bench and whispered, “Stay here.”

The tiniest moments and the strongest emotions were jumbled together in his head, discordant and clashing. A memory of cook’s apple pie, his mother adding a dollop of cream on top of it, slipping it to him after his father had banished him to his cold room. The warmth of Philip’s skin beneath his palms this afternoon, heat flowing through him. The sightless staring eyes of the first man he’d ever killed, a brigand who’d meant to rob him and slice him open. A table in a crowded tavern, benches and mugs both filled, Jessica’s laugh, Carol’s indulgent smile, and Natasha’s raised eyebrow at his outrageous story. The overturned stones of the family cemetery, monuments crushed beyond recognition, names gone.

The scuff of a boot on stone didn’t make Clint turn nor open his eyes; he’d been expecting one of them to come. All of the women were mother hens, and he loved that about them.

“May I have a moment?” Philip asked, and Clint stiffened as that damned itch came back, spiraling into his neck.

“For?” The word came out clipped and short; the sound of it reverberated in his ears and increased the pounding in his temples.

“Are you … I know we haven’t …” Philip paused, collected himself. “Did I do something to anger you?”

“No.” He couldn’t explain what he was feeling to himself much less out loud, but he knew he needed to say more. “Natasha sent you?”

“She suggested it, yes.” There was the smallest hint of a laugh in Philip’s words.

“Nat’s suggestions are more like orders.” Clint could sense Philip’s nearness and the solid presence helped, shielding him from the light that made the pain worse. “I have a headache. They come on suddenly and without warning sometimes.”

“I know a little about those.” Philip dropped down into a squat and put his hand on Clint’s knee. “Maria is subject to terrible ones, and I learned a few techniques to help. Would you mind?” How had they gone from this afternoon in the shed to this formality? Clint didn’t know. But the warmth of Philip’s palm was comforting so Clint nodded in assent. The pads of Philip’s fingers gently touched Clint’s forehead, smoothing away the furrows before they rested on Clint’s temples and applied the lightest of pressure; even that made the beat of his heart thrum through his head. Pain flashed in rhythm and he bit his lower lip to keep in the groan. Philip moved, running his hands through Clint’s hair and down to the back of his neck, finding new points there and pressing. The pain shifted and poured down to those spots; Clint’s head cleared, but the hurt ran along his spine instead. Shifting, Philip straddled the bench and sat beside Clint; one of Philip’s hands rested around Clint’s wrist, closing the circle like earlier, and the power flowed from neck to hand and back to neck again. Pain was replaced with heat; Clint felt his muscles relaxing as the ache dimmed and faded away. For the longest time, they sat that way, Philip’s touch easing Clint into a more relaxed state.

“Is that feverfew?” Philip asked. Clint glanced at the overgrown bush beside him.

“Could be. Grandmother Frasier was an herbalist; she made all kinds of salves and lotions, even elixirs but those were mostly pure grain alcohol,” Clint answered. “She took her medicine every day.”

“That explains the apothecary.” Philip’s hands keep working, slow circles with his thumbs, easy strokes with his fingers. Clint felt lighter, the throbbing ache retreating.

“This was her garden. She used to grow roses and other plants, some even poisonous. I’d climb the wall and sneak in since it was off limits to everyone. It was always quiet and peaceful.” He closed his eyes and drifted, forgetting what he was worrying about before.

“My mother was a healer as well. She always kept the most meticulous garden; I used to help her tend it. Surprisingly, pulling weeds can be very soothing.” Somehow, Clint had leaned back into Philip’s chest and now could feel the way the words vibrated along his body.

“Is this some kind of magic?” He meant it as a joke, but he felt Philip startle, the smallest of hesitations, and the flow was broken as hands dropped away.

“No.” Another short answer, this time from Philip. They could not seem to have a conversation without saying the wrong things. Clint remembered too late Natasha’s rumor about Philip’s mother.

“Reminds me of a man I meet once, an Asarian. Taught a fighting style with trigger points in the body.” Clint tried again. “I saw him bring a big man down with just a pinch of his fingers.”

“Oh.” Philip relaxed at Clint’s explanation. “The man who taught me was a doctor and Asarian too. Very unusual, but his methods work.”

“I’d say. I could sleep right here,” Clint knew he was mumbling, but he could feel himself slipping out of consciousness, a deep exhaustion taking him.

“You should lie down in a dark room. I’ll bring you some cool water and a cloth. Sleep is the best cure.” Clint let Philip herd him back into the Hall and down the corridor towards their room; he was lightheaded and definitely not himself. By the time Jessica brought in the ewer and Natasha stopped in to check, he was already fast asleep.

* * *

 

In the last two days, Philip had been busy from sun up to long past sundown, learning about his new home, the people who lived there, and what needed to be done. He’d toured the manor and the grounds with Natasha, ridden the wall with Jessica, and talked about fortification needs with Carol. Mayor Garrett hosted Philip for lunch again, introducing him to more of the townsfolk. Bruce had looked over the garden with intense interest, helping to identify the many rare medicinal plants that were growing wild. In the afternoon, Philip made time to work with the guard, training right alongside them and working on his aim with the crossbow. It wasn’t all smooth going; he was still an unknown, and it would take time for people to learn to trust him. The overt support of Clint and his thanes was welcome, but would only take Philip so far.

Philip hadn’t seen much of Clint. His husband had slept fitfully the night of his headache, leaving Philip to lay awake and remember the way he’d felt Clint’s eyes on him while sparring with Carol and the desire that had sparked so quickly afterwards, almost embarrassingly so. Then Clint had changed, sharp words and angry looks at dinner, but reversed again under Philip’s fingers, relaxing into his hold. In the morning, Clint had been curled up tightly, and Philip let him sleep. A series of mishaps on the wall kept Clint busy outside the manor, a section collapsing and wounding three men. Clint was up before sunrise the day after that, off to oversee the mixture of the chinking compound and the repairs.

When Philip did manage to sleep the next night, he dreamed.

_Glowing green walls, endless corridors that became tunnels with neither rhyme nor reason. Circles of flames trapping and chasing him, angry voices calling his name. Then there was the rocking of a ship and the drag of calloused hands on his skin, flickering energy trailing along the fingertips’ path, purple sparks that illuminated the darkness. Body heat mixed with the cool metal of chains against skin, kisses moist along his spine, a hand closed over his mouth, muffling his cries._

_“What is this?” Clint whispered, lips brushing Philip’s neck. “What are you?”_

_“Shhhhh,” Philip warned, bearing down with his forearm on those broad, muscular shoulders so hard he knocked a tome off, books tumbling from the shelves. “Come for me.” A command, voice low and harsh; Clint arched and caught at Philip’s hands, winding their fingers together. Power flared, purple shadows at the edge of Phil’s vision, and then it wasn’t Clint beneath him. The man’s dark hair was slicked back, his brilliant blue eyes as cold as mountain snow._

_“You have no idea, do you?” he asked._

Philip jerked away with a cry, the abrupt shift forcing him awake, his breath coming in short gasps. He was achingly hard, close to the edge, just the friction of the sheet enough to make him bite his lip to keep from moaning. The faintest beginning of light filtered in the window, the quiet of the hour before dawn surrounding the manor; Clint was face down, arm thrown across Philip’s midsection. Brain spinning far too fast, Philip tried to make sense of the very vivid dream, staring at the ceiling for long minutes, but his body had different needs. Closing his eyes again, he willed his heart to slow down.

“Shhhhhh.” Clint’s hand slipped lower until his thumb brushed across the aching tip of Philip’s swollen cock.  A soft moan; the touch felt good and Philip wanted more, so he turned his head and looked into those ever-changing eyes, blue now in the darkness of the room. Lifting up on his elbow, Clint moved over him, and then his mouth covered Philip’s in a soft kiss. Philip slid his knee over and Clint straddled it; the semi-hard line of Clint’s erection rasped along the curve of Philip’s thigh and they groaned at the same time. Maybe it was the time of night, the secret moment when all the demands of the daylight were forgotten, when they were nothing but two men with desires. Whatever the cause, they moved in unison, warming the covers around them until sweat beaded at the back of Philip’s neck and a bead ran down Clint’s cheek. Aroused flesh rubbed, a hand circled around Philip and he arched up as Clint’s slickened fingers worked him open then Clint was pushing inside, welcomed and filling in a way Philip had never imagined. Press and retreat, tangled and joined, no words, just sighs and moans; Philip’s climax was like an ocean swell that rose to a peak and then gradually retreated. He floated, meeting Clint’s last few thrusts with his hips, tightening his knees around Clint’s ass and holding him as he came. Clint’s hands traced up Philip’s side and down his arms until their hands clasped and Clint’s head was resting on Philip’s chest.

“Good dream or bad dream?” Clint asked.

“Good then bad.” Philip’s whole body was relaxed now; he could go back to sleep easily, but the sun was up, light growing in the room. 

“If I have to wake up, this is a good way,” Clint rolled over and flopped onto his back.  “I hope the rest of the day is as nice.” He pushed up on his elbows and reached a hand over to stroke Philip’s hand.

The purple spark jumped between them, bright in the dim light, the crackle loud.

“What is …” Clint started to ask.

A knock sounded on the door. “Clint?” Carol’s voice was pitched low, but carried into the room. “We need you in the hall.”

They rolled out of bed instantly and dressed with practiced precision, pausing only to clean themselves off. Hurrying, Philip came into the hall just behind Clint and saw a young boy slumped by the fireplace, drinking water in fast gulps, his hands shaking. Long slashes rent his too-small shirt and leather vest along his left side; he held his arm against his chest, red stains already turning brown as the blood dried on the cloth. His face was pale, smears of dark stains from his fingers marring his cheeks and forehead. Big dark eyes, half out-of-focus and far too large for such a small face, stared up at them. Carol was standing next to him, a burning anger in her eyes, and Jessica hovered just behind.

“Lord Barton?” His voice trembled, but he held himself together.

“Yes. You’re safe now.” Clint dropped down to one knee, bringing himself to eye level. Philip caught sight of Theodore and William hovering just outside the doorway; he waved them over.

“Get Clerk Banner. Run. Tell him he’ll need supplies,” he whispered. Theodore nodded and darted off, out the kitchen door.

“I saw it; they was going to kill ‘em.” The boy blinked, tears gathering in his eyes, and looked even younger. Philip had guessed him to be around fourteen, but now he wasn’t sure.

“Start from the beginning, Burton,” Jessica coaxed, laying a hand on Carol’s arm when she would have spoken. “Tell Lord Barton the whole story.”

“Bandits, milord. They came in the middle of the night, after my Mum had put us all to bed. Da and the other men went out to stop ‘em. Miz Farland down the way was screaming then she stopped and then they came to our house.” Big fat tears streaked his cheeks as he spoke. “Mum told me to run, but they caught me and I bit the big ugly ‘un to get away. Mr. Farland put me on a horse, told me come here, to tell you they was going to keep fightin’. I left ‘em, my brothers and sisters, left ‘em there.” He began to sob then, thin shoulders shaking.

“You did the right thing, Burton. We’re going to take care of them.” Clint nodded to Carol over the boy’s bowed head. “Where do you live?”

“Caine’s Cross, milord. The east road.” He coughed and tried to answer. “And my name’s Burtie. Nobody but my Mum calls me Burton.”

“Okay, Burtie. I’m going to ask you a few questions. Just answer the best you can.” Clint began asking specifics: how many bandits, how well armed, and previous problems in town. As he pulled the information from the boy, Philip sent William off to the stables to get the grooms started preparing horses and Nathan, his black hair standing up in different directions, was sent to Dax to make travel packs.

When Clint was finished, Jessica put an arm around the boy. “Come on Burtie. We’ll get you some breakfast and some clean clothes. Lord Barton will take care of your family.”  Philip noticed she didn’t promise they’d be alright; from the boy’s story, he doubted there was much chance they’d all emerged unscathed.

“Get the horses.” Clint ordered. The mantle of command fell easily on his shoulders; this was a role he was comfortable with. “We’ll ride within the half hour. Take five of the guard, one of them Rodriguez. Sounds like a small band but we’ll have to run them to ground. We make an example of them.”

“Not we,” Carol argued. “You’re a Lord now, Clint. It’s my job to ride into danger; you have a different responsibility.”

“These are my people and I’m still your commanding officer.” Clint wasn’t swayed. “You’re staying here; this could be a feint to draw us away. Jessica can go with me.”

“Clint,” she shook her head. “Natasha is perfectly capable of defending the manor. You might need me.”

“Natasha won’t be back until tomorrow.” That was news to Philip; he didn’t even know she was gone.

Carol wasn’t done yet; she turned to Philip. “Explain the role of a Lord to him, Philip.”

“I agree with Clint.” He saw the surprise on Carol’s face. “Were Clint an established Lord, well-known by his people, I’d say your plan would be best. But right now, the people need to see him protecting them; if events go the way you think they will, we’ll all have plenty of battles to face.”

For a moment, Philip would swear he saw a flicker of purple in Clint’s eyes. “Be sure and keep the work on the wall going,” Clint aimed his words at Philip. “The manor is yours; keep them safe.”

“I’ll roust Anders and Quincy; I saw Salinas and Pratt already …” They walked away and Philip took his own leave. He looked into the kitchen where Dax was taking some of the still hot meat rolls from the oven to add to the food satchels. He’d taken some time yesterday to organize his meager belongings into the wardrobe – and he’d thought of the cart filled with the possessions he’d packed, his clothes, his books, all on their way from Tarian Castle. Where would he put it all? He busied himself getting a pack together, not thinking about the number of times he’d done this before, readying others to go into danger. The door swung open, and Clint stepped in; Philip realized the air still smelled of sex, the covers askew on the bed.

“I put in what I thought you might need. It could take a few days to track them back to their hiding place,” he said as he sat the satchel down by the door. “We’ll take care of things here.”

“You packed for me?” He stared at the leather bag. “Why?”

“To help you get on the road faster. Dax has some food stuffs ready and I’ll go check on the horses while you gather the guard.” Philip started to move past Clint, but he caught his elbow and held him back.

“You are …” Clint searched for the right word, “… completely unexpected. Thank you.” His other hand curled around Philip’s neck and drew him in for a quick, but very thorough kiss.

“You’re welcome.” Philip smiled in return.

* * *

 

“Is this where you tell us we’re not wanted in the manor anymore?”

Philip knew this meeting wouldn’t be easy; looking at the group gathered in the hall, the worry and sullen resentment on their faces confirmed his suspicions. There were seven of them, the camp followers, five women and two men. He’d taken the time to learn their names before he’d called them together, to find out a little about each one of them. He needed to settle their place here before he interviewed townspeople for jobs later this afternoon. And none of this was about the brown haired man that seemed to put his hands on Clint quite often or the way Philip felt when he saw how Clint laughed and smiled at Andrew.  None of that entered into the equation.

 “No. There’s plenty of work for everyone; this is where we talk about what job you want to have in Lord Barton’s household.” He saw the look Andrew and the other man exchange a glance; well, they were going to have to get used to using Clint’s title.  With Clint on his way to Caine’s Crossing, now was as good a time as any to beard this lion.

“You mean Clint?” Rachel called out; the blonde had asked the first question, her disdain for the proceedings obvious.

“I mean Lord Barton. We all need to cultivate the habit; the people here and the other landowners will expect it.” He was going to have to be blunt, he could see. Only two of the women – Darla and Sophia – seemed the least bit open to listening.

“Of course, Lord Barton … I mean you not Clint. Two Lord Bartons is going to get confusing fast,” she drawled. This morning she was clad in a pair of oversized leather pants and a linen shirt clasped around her waist by a wide belt; Philip had never seen Rachel wear a dress in his short time here. She seemed to be the spokeswoman for the group, but Philip suspected others were simply biding their time. Andrew’s green eyes were following his every movement, weighing and judging.

“Lord Philip is fine.” That earned him an eye roll and two sighs. He waited until they’d settled back down and stared each one down in turn; Fury called Phil’s ability to wait calmly the greatest weapon in his arsenal. Very few people could stand the silent regard for long. Sure enough, Rachel dropped her own gaze first; Andrew lasted the longest but even he succumbed quickly.  “How long have you been with Clint’s company?” He addressed the question to Ivan with his dark hair, dark eyes, and silent behavior.

“Four years.” A heavy accent colored his words, but there was no trace of sarcasm.

“Ladies?” Philip asked. “How long?”

“Six.” Nila, a lovely dark-skinned woman, answered with a quiet voice; she barely looked older than fifteen, but Jessica had told him she was over twenty years old. They thought.

“Two for us,” Darla answered for both herself and Sophia. They were sisters, Jessica had said; they went everywhere together.

“Three,” Rachel said. That just left Andrew who shrugged when the others looked to him.

“A year and a half.” His answer held a note of bragging as if he was challenging them all to make a comment.

“Then you know Lord Barton and you obviously care enough about him and this company to come here with them. This is his home, these are his people, and you can see how much they’ve suffered; regardless of what you think of me, you owe it to Clint to do the best you can to help him rebuild. I promise if you help us, this can be your home as well.” Cynicism ran deep and Philip expected nothing less than the silence that greeted his words, but he hoped he’d sown a seed of trust. “Now what are your skills?”

Nila spoke first. “My father was a scribe,” she offered. “I can read and write in three languages.”

“Excellent. With all the workmen we’ll have and Dax’s lists of required ingredients, there will be a large amount of correspondence.” An assistant hadn’t been on his short list but would certainly be welcome.

“I can sew,” Sophia said. “Darla too, but she prefers needlework to mending.” Darla glowered but didn’t gainsay her sister’s comments.

“Gardening.” Ivan kicked his feet up on the next bench and said no more than that.

“Well, my mother was a whore and daddy one of her customers. My skill? I give a fantastic blowjob.” Rachel threw out the challenge that Philip was expecting and prepared for.

“Fair enough. But this is a manor, not a brothel; everyone needs to contribute to the day-to-day running of the house. If you’re willing, you can fuck everyone and anyone who agrees on your own time. No one will be forced to have sex, and rape will not be tolerated.” Several heads whipped up at that statement, shock in their eyes.

“You going to throw me out if I don’t work?” Rachel pushed and they all waited for his reply.

“You’re welcome to stay on in town and of course you may visit whomever you wish here. There are at least two taverns that may be hiring.” Philip held his ground.

She huffed, crossed her arms under her breasts which plumped up cleavage even more. “Are you sure we can’t come to an arrangement? Nights will be long and cold in the winter once the newness wears off.”

“Not the right equipment, but thank you for the offer,” he calmly replied. That earned him a chuckle from Ivan and Darla, plus an appraising look from Andrew. “I wouldn’t mind fresh sheets on Lord Barton’s bed, or clean clothes to replace soiled ones if you’ve a mind to work the laundry.”

Laughter bubbled up from her throat. “You just might be trainable, _Lord_ Philip. But I’ll turn down the laundry. What I can do is bake bread and make a pie crust that will melt in your mouth. Dax could use the help.”

That just left Andrew; he offered up an easy smile. “Always have loved working with horses.”

“A right horse whisperer is our Andy,” Darla agreed. “Can talk a woman out of her underwear and a horse straight through a river without balking. Silver tongued devil.”

“Good. I’ll be hiring more help today and there’s plenty to do to get started now. If the King does come to visit, we’ll need all hands on deck to make a good impression.” He nodded, dismissing them. He hadn’t won the battle, he knew; there were still so many challenges left.

“Lord Philip,” Andrew said, pausing close enough to reach out with his hand and touch Philip’s arm. “If you need help …”

“I appreciate the offer.” Philip was cautious in his reply, wondering exactly what the man thought to accomplish.

“It is a difficult position you are in. But we do all agree. Clint … Lord Barton is worth the effort,” he said with a smile as he left the room.

“Very interesting strategy,” Annamarie said. She was standing in the doorway that led to the demolished wing of the Manor, hands on her hips. Younger than Philip but older than Clint, she had a smattering of grey strands in her brown hair, laugh lines around her brown eyes and an easy smile. With a glance, she seemed the antithesis of Clint’s three thanes; extra weight clung to her hips and her curves were from childbirth not muscles. But she was just as strong as the others. “Are you always so soft-hearted? That’s trouble in the making there.”

“Are you always so straight spoken?” He’d been warned by the Mayor and a few of the townspeople that Annamarie was too disrespectful of authority, but that only made him want to talk to her more.  “Thank you for coming.”

She nodded, a shadow floating behind her eyes. “I haven’t been here since the attack.”

“If it’s too difficult …”

“No, it is time. Mother always said to face my problems.” She walked into the main hall, eyeing the tables and empty walls. “So much to do yet, so much lost. Although mother would be happy to see those tapestries gone. She always hated them. Made the room very dark and dreary, she said. Who wants to see bloody corpses depicted in thread while they eat.”

Philip let her talk, knowing she was dealing with reminders of her own grief.

“And you want me to take charge of this place? I will speak my mind, be warned. I’m not a sycophant like Garrett and I won’t stand for whoring from my staff nor lazing about. If they do their work and cause no trouble, they’re welcome.” She was looking for Philip’s reaction.

“Agreed,” was all he said. “When can you start?”

She laughed, a hearty sound that echoed around the bare room. “Since you’re stacked like cordwood up here, I’ll be living at home until suitable quarters are available for me and the twins. First thing, I handle the hiring of the kitchen and manor staff; you won’t know the slackers from the good ones. No special treatment regardless who’s who. Now, what’s first?”

“Lord Barton wants us prepared for winter, so foodstuffs and weatherproofing.” Philip followed her as she led the way out of the hall towards the kitchen.  “I’ve gotten a start building up the larder …”

* * *

 

Seven bodies lay in the outer yard of the inn, and Clint took a moment to look them over before he swung down out of the saddle. Two were obviously bandits from their attire, faces marked with red patches of burned skin. The others -- two men, a woman, and two young boys – were locals; copper pennies covered their eyes, payment for the ferryman who would take them safely into the afterlife. 

“Lord Barton.” The man who came forward from the crowd was in his late thirties, dressed in homespun breeches and linen cloth with a leather vest tied closed. A big boned man, he bowed his head briefly. “My Burton? He reached you?”

“Safe and in the care of Clerk Banner for his wounds.” Clint couldn’t help but notice the looks exchanged from the handful of men and women who’d come out of the inn to greet the party. There’d been fear at first, but now there was something akin to hope.  “I need to know what happened here.”

“Of course, My Lord,” another man pushed forward; his clothes were of better quality, and he looked less harried, more like a man who’d had a good night’s sleep. “I am Elder Gregor, and I’ll be happy to explain …”

“Thank you, Gregor, but I would like to hear from  …” Clint looked at Burtie’s father and waited.

“I’m Ferguson, milord.” His eyes darted between the other man and Clint, a bit of concern there.

“… Ferguson and I’ll want to speak to Farland as well. Shall we?” Clint didn’t wait, walking up the steps and into the main room, expecting the others to follow.  Setting the tone, that was what Natasha called it, ensuring the people understood he was in charge here. Jessica, he knew, would stop to check out the bodies, to look for any clues as to their identities. 

“Farland’s bad off, milord,” was the first thing Ferguson said after Clint sat down on a bench. A mug of ale appeared in front of him; the older woman bobbed a curtsey and went back behind the bar where a slim man about her age was working. “That’s his wife and two sons out there; he’s with Old Man Singer right now.”

Gregor snorted at the statement, and Ferguson stopped talking. Crossing his arms, Clint waited, taking a sip of his ale to cover the silence. Finally, he spoke to Ferguson. “Tell me what happened, start to finish.”

“We live on the north side of town, us and the Farlands and the Donaldsons, up near the woods. Been a hard few years, here on the edge. There’s always the occasional wolf or bear or sometimes even stranger creatures that get lost and wander our way, but nothing like this. We had a gimlet picking off sheep, a wolf pack that ain’t scared of nothing but hard steel, and a rugar sighting over near Donaldson’s Meadow.”

“Now that’s just a story and you know it,” Gregor interrupted. “We have no proof of a rugar.”

“We killed a mother and her cubs two days ago near Frasierton.” Clint fixed the pompous man with a stare that would stop a sensible person. “Please, go on,” he asked Ferguson.

“There’s been a few robbings on the roads, mostly the wooded sections in the foothills towards Stark’s, but they’ve never bothered a town before. Picking off lone travelers, that’s what they’ve been doing. We just travel in groups with swords, and we were alright.” Ferguson’s hands were shaking slightly, whether from the trauma of the night or talking now, Clint didn’t know. But he was scared of something. With another glance at Gregor, Ferguson kept going. “They broke into Farland’s house; first sign we knew was Sue’s screams. Farly was outside, checking on his fence line; he’d lost some of his best laying hens to a wolf last week. Woke me and my wife up. That was the only reason we had time to get ready for ‘em. Bron, she got the kids out, told ‘em to run to the circle, and then they were at the door. Wasn’t ‘til later that Farly told us he’d sent Burtie on to get you.”

“Why would they attack you? Were they looking for something?” Clint asked. It was odd; bandits usually took the path of lesser danger, opting to rob those weaker than themselves and chose targets with the most money or gold. Two farmer’s homes didn’t fit that pattern.

“That’s the weird part. They didn’t say nothing, just sat about trying to kill us. We’d have all been dead if it weren’t for Old Man Singer showing up with his magic.”

“There is no such thing as magic!” Gregor burst out. “That old man is a charlatan, a trickster. Tells his stories and takes your money for herbs and sleight of hand, that’s all!”

Clint held up his hand to forestall any more interruptions. “I’ll thank you to keep your tongue, Elder Gregor. You’ll have your turn. Now, how did Singer get there and what did he do?”

“His place is close; it was Farly’s little girl. She crawled out a window and ran.” He didn’t explain why the child would go to Singer’s; that was interesting. Clint filed that fact away for later. “He threw fire at them – you can see their burns – and the others got scared and ran. We’d be dead if he hadn’t shown up when he did.”

“Alright, tell me as many details as you can about the bandits. How many, male or female, marks on their bodies, anything at all out of the ordinary,” Clint asked. Something about all of this was off and it was niggling at his brain.

“Well, milord, their eyes were odd.” Ferguson leaned forward. “They were all blue. Not just normal colors, but glowing, even at night.” 


	6. It must be magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bandits are looking for something and their eyes are on Barton Manor as a target. Clint and Philip and the others have to defend the town. And there's magic in the air.

Old Man Singer’s place wasn’t all that far from the homesteads but it might as well have been halfway across the world. The ramshackle old house was two story, build of wood and plaster walls that were in disrepair, light glinting off the remaining glass in the big open windows. The wall around the compound was shored up in places with rocks, in other spots with wooden palisades and still others with sheets of rusty metal layered over each other and winched tight at the edges. Hodgepodge, that was the word Clint would use to describe the place, old structures cobbled together for protection and warmth in this cold climate on the edge of civilized space. Inside the wall was the strangest collection of items sitting among the trees and cluttering up the clearing. Iron contraptions, only half of any given device, filled with rusty holes, piled haphazardly on top of broken carts, building materials, and other junk. Among the mess Clint saw a table ladened with pulley systems and a rack of old swords and other weapons. Jessica spotted the wagon tucked around the side of the house under cover of a sheet metal roof next to an anvil and a forge.

He was waiting for them on the porch, not an old man at all, but a man in his fifties with a weathered face and tufts of grey in his hair and beard. His stance was loose, easy, and despite his moderate size and oversized coat, he carried himself with the confidence of a fighter. Glowering at them as they approached, he waited, not at all cowed to be meeting a Lord. Clint could have stayed on his horse, used the difference in height to establish his dominance, but his gut told him this wariness was born of experience and difference rather than some deep seated hatred. So he slid off after they came to a stop, Jessica following his lead, stepped up to the Singer, and waited for him to make the first move.

“You come to interrogate the bandit?” Gravelly voiced, Singer crossed his arms as his eyes narrowed, assessing. Clint kept his face impassive; Ferguson had told him there was one living captive.

“Aye, and I’d like to ask Farland some questions if he’s up to it.” No reprimand for the lack of title, no posturing; Clint let the conversation ride.

“Bandit’s no use to you.” Singer shook his head. “But you can talk all you like. Farly’s under some heavy medication, but he’ll help. He’s trying to roll out of bed and go after the bastards himself.”

A little girl, no more than five-years-old, peaked around the corner of the door; her cheeks were stained with the trail of tears, her eyes red, nose snotty and unwiped.  Her feet were bare and her dress stained with dark brown spots of dried blood. Farly’s girl, Clint surmised.

“I plan to take care of that,” Clint replied. Singer stood for a few more seconds, the silence stretched then he dropped his shoulders and stepped out of the way.

“Well, come on then. Your men can stable the horses around back; well water’s cold but plentiful.”

The inside was as odd as the outside. The entryway held a flight of stairs up and opened into a parlor that was crammed full of books of all shapes and sizes. Every surface had piles of tomes, some old, some new, some buckled closed, some falling apart. Only the desk in front of the fireplace was cleared off, stacks of parchment, a set of bowls, various candles, and apothecary jars neatly lined up along the sides to leave the middle open. Through another doorway, Clint could see a table and chairs, an ancient icebox, and cabinets with long countertops stacked full of bottles and pots and boxes.

“A very old house,” Jessica said, running a hand along the mantle place. The painting above was of a green landscape, dappled sunlight on a lazy river. “Pre-age handicraft.  Nice workmanship – there are people in the Capital who’d spend a lot of money for this.”

“Yeah, well, they can kiss my ass,” Singer snorted. “House has been in the family for generations. Ain’t no fancy going to strip it so they can brag to their hoity-toity friends then replace it all in five years.”

Jessica smiled in returned. “I see you’ve been down that way.”

“I’ve been everywhere, ma’am.” Wasn’t that interesting, Clint thought. Jessica was good at connecting with people, young and old alike, and Singer’s politeness to her was much different from his reaction to Clint. “Seen a lot in my time. Things people ‘round here don’t want to believe.”

“Like rugars down from the mountains? Or men with glowing blue eyes?” Clint tossed out. Singer didn’t miss a beat.

“Aye. And stranger things. Question today is, do you want to know about them or are you gonna stick your head in the sand and pretend magic doesn’t exist? ‘Cause if that’s the case, the door is right there and you may as well head on out of here. Go back to town and take that idjit Gregor up on his offer of a drink.” The belligerent Singer was back, daring Clint to contradict him.

“Since we killed a few rugars the other day, guess I’ll have to admit they’re real.” He leaned against a bookcase and remained casual. “Took down a vodun zombie once, so I’m open to the possibility of magical possession.”

Dead silence. Singer stayed perfectly still, didn’t twitch or bat an eyelid for a count of five. Then a grin spread across his face, and he slapped Clint on the shoulder, hard, walked to a cabinet and pulled out a bottle of whiskey and some glasses. “Damn glad to hear it,” he said as he sat them down on the desk and began to pour the brown liquid. “I was thinking it might be time to go wandering again, get out of here until this is over one way or the other. A nice island down South maybe with dark skinned girls and really good rum, if you know what I mean. But if you’re willing to listen, maybe we have a chance.”

“I’ll listen, but the decision is my own.”  The whiskey was smooth and burned as it went down Clint’s throat; Singer tossed his back and poured another before Jessica had finished her first sip.

“Course it is. That’s the way it should be.” He was grabbing books now, seemingly at random, but Clint realized the piles were some sort of organizing system as Singer counted down and over to find what he wanted. “Damn shame about your momma, boy. She’d have taught you right.” He kept searching and ignored the way Clint startled. Singer knew his mother? Jessica caught his eyes and they exchanged a glance. Family was one of the things Clint never talked about, but the women around him knew. Natasha, he imagined, had found out all the details she didn’t already know once they arrived at the manor and shared them with Carol and Jessica.

“Ah, here it is.” Singer tugged a black leather bound book out and placed it on the desk; he carefully brushed off the area around it then dusted the book itself before he opened it, the vellum making crinkles and cracks as he gingerly found the page he wanted. As big as a platter, the tome’s pages were yellowed and filled with tiny black letters and intricate illuminations in the margin, colors faded with age.

Clint stepped over and tried to read the words on the page, but he’d never seen the language before. What he did recognize was picture of a man’s head, eyes colored blue, in the middle of a patterned design.  “Is that a summoning circle?” he asked.

“You ain’t dumb, are you?” Singer ran his finger along a line of text. “Not a summoning circle, but a sorcerer’s trap. Keeps the magic inside of the lines so’s not to affect anyone else in the room. Mostly just a decoration in this book to show the type of spell, do don’t read much into it.”

“Spell.” It wasn’t a question, more of a statement of a fact Clint didn’t want to hear.

“A spell of compulsion looks like. Takes over the person’s will and makes him a puppet to the commands of the spell caster.  Poor sap would be trapped inside, watching what he was doing. Nasty piece of work.” He read aloud from the book: “for the strong of heart, a circle is recommended to entrap their soul. Only the strongest of sorcerer can ensnarl a bonded.”

“So the bandits were under a spell cast by a sorcerer? That one might be a little too far for me to go.” Clint had seen the effects of magic but never met more than a hedge wizard or charms witch. He wasn’t one to discount legends – too many scars left by creatures that weren’t supposed to exist to do that – but this strayed into the realm of fairy tales.

“Don’t bale on me yet,” Singer said. “Doesn’t have to be a living person, although that’s a possibility. Could be magical residue. These hills were a popular place to hide things and booby traps could be lingering. Or maybe they robbed the wrong person and ended up with a cursed item. Those are floating around out there too.”

“And it made them all go crazy and attack innocent people?” Jessica said, putting things together. “That’s a big coincidence. Why these people and this place?”

“Could be the closest to their hideout,” Clint offered, playing devil’s advocate.

“And maybe there was a reason to come here,” Jessica came back. “If they’d turned on each other or gone off in different directions, I could buy it. But this was a planned attack. They came at night, hit less defended targets, moved from one house to the next, fought as a unit according to the witnesses … that shows thinking on their part.”

“Might be a good question to ask our one remaining bandit.” Clint looked over at Singer. “You talked to him yet?”

“Boy’s tightlipped, scared if you ask me. Whatever happened, he’s not saying. Have a go at him. He’s downstairs.”

He led the way into the cellar and opened a big iron door; behind was a small circular room with tiny windows and a magical symbol drawn on the floor. Sitting on a small cot was a young man, maybe 18-years-old or so, his right arm in a sling and a bandage across his chest. He looked up as they stepped in, angry jaw jutting out as he lifted his head. Then he saw Clint, and he sucked in a breath, eyes going wide with fear.

“You know me?” Clint asked, stopping in front of the captive, standing above him. “Know who I am?”

“You’re him,” he whispered, hands trembling. “Know of you, know what to do. Take the leap, only answer.”

“Leap? What are you supposed to do?”

“He said to find it, to bring it back, to kill you and the others now before …” His whole body began shaking, tremors that grew more violent.  “The Hawk knows.”

“Find what? Who’s the hawk?”

“Can’t. Won’t let me …” A thin line of blood ran from his nose. “All dead. We’re all dead.” He fell over onto his back, limbs thrashing. Clint held his hands down to keep him from clawing at his face while Jessica turned his head to the side so he wouldn’t choke on his tongue.

“What were you looking for?” Clint asked again.

The bandit opened his mouth, tried to speak, but his eyes rolled back into his head, and he simply stopped, falling limp as he died.

“Well, balls” Singer cursed. “Never seen a booby trapped spell before. Seeing you set it off. Might be some marks on the body; magic that black usually leaves a stain.”

“Do you know what he was talking about?” Jessica asked.

“That’s why I keep the books, so I don’t have to remember. Just have to look it up.” Singer huffed as if that should be obvious.

“I don’t think we have to worry about another foray anytime soon,” Clint mused. “If they all were like this … then they’re all dead like he said.”

He was bothered by the fact he’d been the catalyst for the man’s death. What had he meant ‘kill you and the others?’ Before what? And who was this mysterious ‘he?’ Clint had only been back a few months; the attack on the manor was two years ago. How could he have anything to do with this?

“What the hell did all that mean?” Jessica as she balanced on the edge of the desk when they came back upstairs, taking the second glass Singer poured for her. “Someone told them to kill you.” She shook her head at the strange words.

“Well, now we know they were being controlled, given orders. Could be a geas laid on them; that’s easier to do, but never heard of blue eyes associated with that.” Singer was searching again for information in his books. “Ain’t no mistakin’ though. He knew you and was told to kill you. That’s not an old spell; he recognized you.”

“A geas? Like a blood bond?” Clint had heard of ways to make a pact that both sides had to uphold. A good hedge wizard could whip up one of those; mix blood, make a vow, and you had to do what you said.

“More like a curse. Do or die, and a strong one can make you do it whether you want to or not.” He’d stopped at a smaller book with blue binding, scanning the pages as he spoke. “But to do a whole group? Serious power there and since you don’t believe in that, we’re back to square one. Looking for a source that had enough juice to zap them all.”

As open-minded as he was about this, Clint didn’t want to start down that road. “Maybe a creature of some kind? Saw a wyvern once whose stare could freeze men in place. Heard a rumor about a giant snake that could make people walk right into its mouth.”

“Possible. Yeah. Have some grimoires over there to check.” Singer nodded in agreement. “That would explain the smaller fish running from the new big boy in the neighborhood.”

“A bird maybe?” Jessica suggested; she got up and took a book off the top of the stack Singer had motioned to. “He said something about a hawk and a leap.”

“Fuck me.” Clint pushed away from the wall. “Hawk’s Leap. It’s no more than a day’s ride up in the hills. Plenty of caves to hide a group of bandits near the falls.”

“Or a big mean monster.” Singer dropped the book he was holding in his excitement. “Take the leap like the Hawk.”

“Excuse me, someone want to explain to the non-local here?” Jessica asked.

“It’s a cliff face, looks like half the tor was sheared away. There’s a stream that falls from the top down to the pool at the bottom. Legend goes that way back in the First Age, there was a great battle there, part of the last push; the Red Sorcerer rent the ground and ripped it away so Roger’s fighters fell to their deaths including his bonded Barnes.” Clint supplied. He was moving restlessly now, sure he was on the right track. “It’s secluded, difficult to get to, and a perfect hiding place.”

“Also supposed to be cursed,” Singer added. “A few hundred years ago a Fraiser Lord -- man had the eyesight of a hawk, they said – was being chased by some very nasty customers who had killed his wife. They trapped him at the top of the tor and he jumped. Story goes, he turned into a bird and flew away.”

“Hawk’s Leap. You think the others are there?”

“I’m willing to bet on it. Round up the men. Can’t hurt to ride up there and see.”

They stayed long enough to talk to Farland; he added a few details they didn’t already know, but he latched onto the idea the bandits were searching for something. He got out of bed with help and started pouring over Singer’s books; having a goal seemed to give him a reason to go on even if his reading skills were rudimentary. His daughter curled up next to him and he absently hugged her to him as he read.  Singer insisted on coming with them in case there was anything dangerous there, but Clint suspected he was more curious than worried. The thought of running into a creature from legends or a cursed item was too much temptation for him. All in all, he wasn’t a bad traveling companion; he knew details and facts about all the flora and fauna, told stories along the way about wayward lovers and ill-tempered fairies. Avoiding town, they stopped at Ferguson’s who offered them some basic provisions for the two day journey, then set out, up into the hills. The first part of the ride was easy; a road led north for a bit before it swung east towards Stark land. From there, they took to the woods, directions from a map Singer had brought with him, slowing to avoid horses stepping into holes or tripping over exposed roots. Green canopy shaded the afternoon sun, the smell of pine rising as they broke fallen needles under them. They passed by two stone circles, one cleaned and in good repair, still in use, the other smaller, older, further along. Vines grew over the grey cracked surfaces, but a shaft of light cut through an opening and lit the center with an eerie glow.

Night fell quickly under the trees, going from dusky twilight to pitch as they halted in a small clearing near a stream. Under the draping boughs of a pine, tucked into his warm bedroll on the soft carpet of needles, was far from the worst place Clint had ever laid his head. The stream was soothing music, the sparkle of the stars a night light, and the snores around him familiar. Sleep came easily knowing people he trusted were on watch and soon he was dreaming.

_Underground caverns, room after room, glowing with dim light. Books, stacks upon stacks until the walls were obscured and nothing of the floor remained but the tiniest of paths to weave through. Men with glowing blue eyes coming over the rubble of the wall, creeping past the manor, murder in their eyes. Philip in chainmail and leather, pressing him against a table, sparks flying between them as he held him there. Something half-buried, silver glinting on a curved edge. With a cry, a hawk launched itself off a branch and soared over the grounds, a new roof, colorful garden, and new buildings sprawling across the hilltop. Clint pulled back the string, the tone vibrating through him, harmony growing as the chord fleshed out. He focused in on that spot between the ice blue eyes as they turned and fell upon him._

He was used to getting by with only a few hours of rest, but the images kept replaying in his head as they rode on in the morning. Bad dreams were part and parcel of the life he’d made for himself; faces of the dead visited him often in the dark of the night. This was new, these flashes that rang with truth. What they foretold, he had no idea. Give him a battle to fight and he’d know how to begin. Dreams … and marriage … those were different.

The last hour was steep terrain with no path; they had to lead the horses, picking their way along the stream until they could hear the crash of falls growing louder.

“It’s gorgeous,” Jessica breathed as took a bend and came into sight of the pool.  The rocks formed a bowl that caught the water as it cascaded over the lip high above them; the edge tipped out like a pitcher and ran into the stream bed, tumbling down another small drop before it meandered back the way they’d come. Maybe half a mile wide at the back, the smooth curve of the pool took them around to the limestone face of the cliff. “And would be quite a leap from up there.”

“Barton!” Singer shouted, pointing further along their path. A body lay face down, one foot in the water, back and chest bare, angry red splotches along his skin. Dismounting, Clint walked towards it.

“Keep an eye out for movement,” he told the others. “Watch the rocks. There are caves up there, hiding holes.” 

He knelt down and examined the body. Male, older than Clint, a myriad of scars adorning the skin. A sword belt, but no sword and no sign of his shirt or vest. Eyes open, dried blood at the corners and under his nose. A few places gnawed on by wildlife, but still recognizable – he hadn’t been laying here too long.

“The burns are courtesy of my magic,” Singer said, standing and looking over Clint’s shoulder. “Still fresh.”

“Courtesy of your flash powder, you mean.” Clint smirked, catching the reflection of Singer’s face in the water. “I wasn’t born yesterday and that’s very popular in the isles for fusillade canons.”

“Ain’t stupid at all,” Singer muttered under his breath.

“Looks like the other one.” Jessica was moving forward, searching the ground. “And I’ve got footprints here, leading towards that odd little set of indentations.”

Tracking backwards, Clint followed the trail to the cliff face, narrowed his eyes and saw it, the way the rocks changed colors slightly, the smallest of shadows.

“Rodriguez and Pratt, stay here with the horse and watches our backs. Everyone else with me.”

Only when he was flush with the cliff and turned sideways, looking away from the fall of water, did the path become obvious, picking its way up the side, twisting back upon itself and rising higher. Just wide enough for a horse, the trail would be virtually unnoticeable looking straight on, and most would think behind the falls would be where to look, missing it all together.  It wasn’t that difficult to navigate unless a person didn’t care for heights. Clint loved them; from the crow’s nest to the top of a tower, he’d always loved a bird’s eye view, his eyesight allowing him to see great distances. Just being here, he wanted to climb all the way up and take in the view, stand on the edge and feel the rush of wind.

The first overhang they came to held another body, this one clothed and seated with his back to the wall. A sentry post it seemed, barely big enough for one guard. Beyond they found a series of caves, one with six horses who whinnied as they passed, pawing the ground with their hooves, probably hungry and thirsty. Another two that were also stalls, but empty.  Smaller spaces were storage: food in barrels, rainwater, a cask of ale. Then they found the deeper ones, two and three rooms, some sleeping areas, others rooms with benches and tables. As they went, the body count rose to four, each in different positions, one stretched out on a cot, more burns on his body, and the other slumped over a table.

They’d wound their way further and found the largest of the caverns; the entrance was narrow, one skinny person wide unless turned sideways, and opened into a series of four rooms. Lanterns sat just inside, out of sight, and they lit some to carry with them. Desks, chairs, maps, and books cluttered two of them, the third what looked like a meeting room, and the fourth a big cave at the back, down a small passageway, large enough to hold a small troop with a firepit in the middle of the floor. A small outlet for smoke was directly above; Clint guessed there would be a cap on the outside to defuse the tell-tale trickle.  They found the other three bodies here, seated together, a map spread out on a table, mugs half full. All had hemorrhages and blood stains on their faces.

“Looks like somebody doesn’t like failure.” Singer sat his lantern down on the table and crinkled his nose. “Smell’s ripe back here.”

“Spread out,” Clint told the others. “See what you can find but be careful about touching things, especially if it seems old or valuable.” It was a testament to their shared experiences that no one gave his order a second thought. Just in case a cursed object was lying around, it couldn’t hurt to be cautious.

“This place is big.” Jessica was moving around the room; she’d been taking mental notes as they’d explored. “Between the space for the horses, the sleeping quarters, and chairs, these seven, plus our dead one back in town ….”

“It doesn’t look good.” Clint felt a shiver run down his spine at the thought. “Where are the rest?”

“Here’s an idea.” Singer pointed at the map. Clint could see four areas with circles around them. The town at Caine’s Crossing was the closest one. Another was east, into Stark territory, about a two day ride away. Then one due west in Howling Valley and the last one … were Barton Manor and Frasierton.

“Fuck.” Clint stared at the parchment for a moment as the implications sank in. “They’re going to attack the manor.” He knew in a flash how he’d do it. Eight men to Caine’s Crossing because there’d be resistance there. A smaller group along the East road; the barrows were there, a graveyard no longer in use. The rest he’d send to the Valley first to search, and then on to Frasierton. Use one of the broken sections of the wall to gain entrance, take the inhabitants unawares, and split up at different locations while everyone was busy with rebuilding.

“Carol’s there. Natasha should be back by now. And the rest of the guard,” Jessica assured him. “Plus Philip seems damn competent. If the bandits get close, they’ll take care of them.”

“Assuming they hit the manor and not somewhere around town. Innocent people could die.” Clint was moving as he spoke, a crackling energy pushing him to take action. “That’s what they’re going to do.”

“Clint?” Jessica made his name a question.

“Trust me.” The exact same words he’d said that first time, when they’d found themselves back-to-back in a bar fight turned ugly. Something had made her believe it then and she accepted it now.

“Okay. What’s the plan?”

“You and the others stay here, gather up all the information you can, anything that can help us figure out what’s happening.” He walked back through the caves to the entrance, the need to get out of here a solid presence in his chest. “I’ll take Rodriguez and we’ll ride for the manor. We can make it back in two days if we cut across country.”

It wouldn’t be an easy ride – rough terrain, no paths – but every hair on the back of his neck was standing up, worry and fear tied to the image from his dreams. He’d do it. He had to.

* * *

 

Philip wasn’t sure if the constant stream of workers underfoot was worth the progress they were making on the manor. It was getting out of control; Annamarie had women on ladders scrubbing soot off the walls, boys hauling away rubble down to the stone masons to be used for the wall, and men tearing off the old roof to make way for the new. Dax had retreated to his kitchen to train what seemed to be a phalanx of new helpers and Carol kept the Lord’s Guard … as the remaining company fighters had decided to call themselves … busy training new recruits for the main guard ranks. The pages were darting in and out; Nathan had scampered up a ladder yesterday and almost brought it down when he jumped to the rafter beam to get to the roof.  This morning, Philip had awoken to a maid bringing him fresh water and the banging of hammers just outside of his window. He’d tried not to think about being alone in the bed – he’d only had a handful of nights with Clint beside him so he shouldn’t miss the warmth of the other body – and he certainly didn’t allow himself to miss the touch of Clint’s hand or lips, the feel of Clint’s skin against his.  But he did have to find a more permanent solution to bleed off excess energy other than his dagger or sword. The spark built quickly between discharges, more so than ever; yesterday, he’d singed his fingers after catching Rachel and a lusty young mason in the pantry, the anger flashing into power too fast for him to do more than reach for his belt. He took to carrying a small stoppered jar with cooling gel in his pouch to soothe the burns it happened so often.

And yet, the work they’d accomplished in the days since Clint had left was astonishing. He allowed himself to feel a little satisfaction as life teemed inside and out. Worth the trouble, truly, all of it. He’d seen the first tentative sketches from the architects who’d offered their services, four of them total, and they were all more than serviceable replacements for the destroyed parts of the building. Some were downright beautiful; he was particularly fond of one design that incorporated light and gardens into the very essence of the house. Add the fact the architect was a young local man just making a name for himself, and Philip hoped Clint would appreciate the value in doing something new and different. Maybe he could sell Clint with the open, two-story library; the section Philip had seen a draft of, with its large stone fireplace and spiral staircase. He just might have dreamed about that room last night, a happy reprieve from the increasingly bizarre dreams of being lost, colors bleeding into his body, and a dark-haired, green-eyed man appearing at will.

The anxiety from his dreams was seeping into the daylight hours; for the last few days, he’d had a growing sense of dread in the pit of his stomach that something was wrong. Today, the power was close to a boil; he’d taken to touching the wall around the fireplace, singe of the discharge unnoticed in the permanent smoke stain.  He passed there often enough to drag his fingers without arousing suspicion. The weight pressed down at the base of his skull, demanding he take action … but he didn’t know why. Yesterday, he’d scrambled the schedule, moving training to the evening; when Maria Hill had arrived with the wagons ladened with his possessions from Tarian Castle, she’d found Philip on the grounds, watching Carol patiently testing recruits in various weapons. Her unexpected appearance had distracted him for the evening, but the knot was back in full this morning. After a cup of coffee, his first stop was to talk Carol into mixing the Tarian guards in with their people for the afternoon session while he took Maria on a tour of the holding. Three times, he’d changed his mind about the itinerary of their day trip, something pulling him to the Northeast, an area he’d never personally been to himself.

“Lord Philip,” Theodore tugged on his vest to get his attention. “The outer bailey storerooms are cleaned out whenever you’re ready to move your things in.”

“Thank you, Theodore.” There was still some work to be done on the boys’ demeanor, but they were consistently calling him Lord Philip now, so that was progress. “Tell them they can start unloading while we’re gone. Are the horses ready?”

“Andrew’s got ‘em out and saddled. Out front. Lord Philip. Sir.” The boy was trying, Philip had to give him credit. As soon as he finished speaking, Theodore dashed away, running at a breakneck pace weaving through the workers in his way.

“He’s got energy.” Maria said; Philip knew that she was amused by the boy’s antics. “Makes up for the old folks, eh?”

“Considering I’m the old man around here? Yes.” Philip hadn’t bothered to hide the dark circles under his eyes this morning at breakfast. Maria had grilled him last night about his life here, missing nothing in her quest to satisfy her worries.

“You’re running circles around all of them, I bet.” Concern shadowed her eyes. “That young pup you married has to keep up with you.”

“Shall we?” He only smiled in return and led her outside. Andrew was waiting by Philip’s roan courser, holding the reins like a good groom.

“She’s being skittish about her left flank today, milord,” Andrew offered, patting a hand down Lola’s neck. “I moved the destrier next to her to another stall; he was all teeth.”

“Thank you, Andrew.” Philip still didn’t have a read on the man; he’d been a perfect servant since their conversation, offering to help in all sorts of ways.  Always half-expecting a touch from him, Philip had been wrong; Andrew backed off, seeming to accepting his refusal.

“May I join you?” Natasha asked, coming down the stairs; Philip didn’t give away his surprise at seeing her. She was here and there, keeping her own schedule. Gone for a day or two, she’d returned only to make herself scarce when Maria had arrived. 

“Please. You know more of the history than I do.” He nodded to Andrew to saddle Natasha’s horse; his sense of unease lightened a little to know that these two women would be riding with him. Between them, two of Maria’s men, two of Clint’s, and the squire behind, they could more than handle any creature they might encounter.

“Natasha, isn’t it?” Maria drawled with her best intimidating glare. “I believe we’ve met.”

“Ah, yes, Lord Stane’s, if I have it correctly. Nice to see you again, Maria.”  She swung gracefully up into the saddle, not needing any help. “I hear you’re headed north. Shall we go by the orchards? Madge will have a new batch of honey cider”

“I’d thought we’d go to the ruins. I’ve yet to see the Abbey. We could stop on the way back for a mug.” He spurred his horse and headed out, time ever at his back, urging him forward

“I’d have thought you’d be busy with the King’s visit,” Natasha spoke sweetly, but there was an undercurrent of tension between the two women.

“Oh, I’ll not be missed. Seems most of the court came with him with the impression there’d be a wedding feast. The King himself brought his chefs for the dinner. Fury called a series of games to placate them all.” Maria shrugged as if she didn’t care.

“When can we expect them here?” Philip asked. The threat of Loki had almost been forgotten in the busyness of his new life, and yet the shadow remained. “And how many?”

“That might be quite a while. Lord Stark sent word he was hosting a party to celebrate something or other – I forget exactly what and with it doesn’t matter – and the King loves a good party. By then, winter will be upon you, the roads treacherous, the Capital looking much more cozy and warm.” Maria’s smile to Philip was more open and friendly than any glance towards Natasha. “What Prince Loki plans is anyone’s guess. He plays his hand very close to his vest. Barton Manor isn’t too far out of his way on his journey home.”

The king could be distracted but not the Asgardian prince. Philip had hoped the marriage would put an end to whatever Loki’s scheme was, but it appeared he was wrong. He lost the thread of the conversation as the women continued to spar with their words.  A stab of cold, like a dagger thrust, and he couldn’t breathe as the autumn colors of the leaves faded and men seemed to creep across the countryside. One glanced up and his eyes glowed blue like the cavern walls of Philip’s dreams.

“Philip?” Maria’s voice shattered the vision. “Have you fallen asleep on your horse?”

“Merely thinking.” He couldn’t shake the dark surety that gripped him. His mind flew to Clint, wondered where he was, if he was in some sort of danger. For a man Philip had only met a week ago, Clint Barton seemed to occupy a lot of his thoughts.

“Making more lists; I knew this would be a good place for you,” Maria joked.

They topped a rise and saw them, men slipping into the orchard spread out below.  Six that Philip could count, others moving between the trunks, already hidden among the grove.  In a split second, one of them turned and saw them silhouetted on top of the hill. He called to the others.

“Ride back to the manor. Tell Carol we have bandits northeast. Send men to protect the town; we’ll hold as many of them as we can here,” Philip said to the squire; the young man whipped his horse around and broke into a gallop. He turned to the others.

Bandits were already coming, short bows drawn, closing the distance; they rode along the ridge to the east, staying ahead and out of arrow range. The ruins weren’t far, but the pursuit was hard on their heels; Philip’s heart was pounding as Lola jumped over the first tumbled wall. No matter how many times he had his hand on the pommel of his sword, ready to kill, his palms still got sweaty and his first thought was surviving.  Bravery, courage … it was really sheer cursedness and the refusal to give into fear that made men fight. He led them to the warren of half-walls, jumping off his horse and smacking her rump to make her run on. The first arrows slammed into the stone as he took cover; two of the guards had crossbows and returned fire until the bandits were upon them, swords ready, eyes glowing an eerie blue.

He counted six … no, eight … and then all he could do was fight the red-haired Northman in front of him.  A big two handed sword arced towards him; he blocked it with his left sword and slashed with his right. Weight and strength against Philip’s speed and agility – he had to find a way past the armor, watching for the opening, and then he had it. His opponent lifted his sword and Philip plunged his in the unprotected space under his arm, pushing him back so he fell. Before he was down on the ground, another took his place, a woman with a long dark braid and a curving scimitar.

Maria covered his left side, her fighting style one of pressing every advantage, using her size to get under the taller man’s reach then taking him neatly and efficiently with one stroke of her long sword. Natasha … Philip realized he hadn’t seen her fight before, catching a glimpse of her flipping off of a portion of the wall, slicing with her small roundel in each hand as she landed. Like an acrobat, she tumbled out of the reach of the swing of another sword; the slim points of her daggers bit right through the leather and into the man’s chest before he even knew what was happening.

The scimitar woman was good, quick on her feet and nimble. Philip had to concentrate to defend against her blows. His foot hit a loose stone and he went down on one knee; twisting out of range, he avoided the sharp iron edge. It just missed his neck and glanced off his shoulder instead, leaving a long thin slice down his bicep. The position gave him the chance to brace himself and drive his sword into her gut, in the space between breast plate and belt; her eyes widened, blinked and changed to a dark brown as she stumbled back, dropping her sword.

“Incoming!” Maria shouted. Coming from the east, more bandits swarmed over the ruins, closing in on them from behind. His focus became the clang of metal and the grunts of exertion as he parried and thrust, falling back beneath the onslaught of four men. The strange silence, not a single word spoken by their attackers, was unnerving; no hesitation, pressing forward, determined, seemingly not human at all. One of Clint’s company was down, bleeding from a nasty wound. Maria was favoring her right leg, a bloody trail across her calf muscle, and still they kept coming.  A buckler slammed into Philip’s right wrist, numbing his hand and he dropped a sword; three of them took the advantage and attacked at once.

He thought, just then, about the sense of dread he’d had, his worries about Clint, the irony of it all. Anger flared, power bubbling up, and he released it down his sword as he slammed the blade against the chainmail of one of his opponents. The smell of burning leather and the man screamed; blue faded from his eyes and he stepped back, confused. 

Clear eyed, he looked at Philip. “It’s you,” the bandit said, voice laced with agony. “You have to stop him, don’t let him get it.”

Boxed in by the others, Philip tried to get to the man, to hear what he had to say, but his back hit the wall and fighting for his own life took precedent. Pushing off of the stone, he launched himself between the two remaining bandits, pivoting on his heel and slashing as he went, using their own momentum to turn their swords against each other. A long gash across one’s exposed neck, and a hard slam of pommel against the other’s bare head took them out of the fight. By the time Philip could spare a glance, the other bandit was dead, blood running from the corner of his mouth.

A whoosh and thrum buzzed by his ear accompanied by a bit of a melody in his head … did he just hear music? … and a rush of energy filled his chest. Spinning, he saw the arrow sunk to the fletching in the chest of the man behind him, two more hitting the remaining bandits with frightening accuracy, each a perfect kill shot.  Content that all of them were down, Philip turned to see two riders cantering up to the ruins. Clint was in the lead, Rodriguez behind.

“What can I say? Clint has excellent timing,” Philip said in answer to Maria’s look.

* * *

 

The outer bailey rooms weren’t ideal for triage but they were clean, had enough space, and a warm fire burned in the small fireplace.  Philip moved among the cots, checking on the mix of townsfolk and guard. The worst, thank the gods, was Brickman; his wound was painful and would require a long recuperation period, but Natasha and Maria had gotten the bleeding stopped in time. The rest were less serious, slashes and scratches and even one broken bone where a man had thrown his arm out to protect himself as he fell.  The tally could have been much worse had they not had warning; Madge and her family were certain to have been in the line of fire as well as more townsfolk.  By the time Clint and Philip had gotten to town, the skirmish had already started; Carol had mobilized a line of defense and was holding the bandits back. Clint had been nothing short of magnificent – Philip didn’t bother to lie to himself about that – firing from a moving horse with startling accuracy. The sight had encouraged Philip as he waded into the fight himself, feeling renewed; there was a sense of Clint watching that made Philip stronger, more sure of himself.  In the end, it had been a rout; the bandits stood no chance against Carol’s plan and Clint’s aim. Unfortunately, none of them survived to be questioned. In the aftermath, Philip had yet to have a chance to ask Clint how he knew that would be the outcome.

“Get away from him.” Richardson, the baker, ordered. Philip stepped over to where the man’s son was being tended for a forearm wound. The young man had just joined the guard and had been helping to pull the wounded out of the fray when he’d been caught by the tip of a sword. All in all, it was a minor wound, nothing more than a scar to brag about later. The problem, it seemed, was the fact that Andrew was the one slathering on the herbal poultice and getting ready to bandage the wound.  To his credit, he’d been one of the first people on the scene, his bedside manner easy and calming. This was the first Philip had seen of this side of the groom.

“Excuse me.” He came up behind Richardson. “Is there a problem?”

“Annamarie promised.” Richardson’s face was pale with worry as he gazed at his son. “I don’t want my son corrupted by him.”

Philip could understand the man’s fear for his son, but he would nip this problem in the bud right now.  As Andrew started to pull away, his eyes downcast, Philip spoke. “Is it the fact that Andrew has sex or that he has sex with men you find so abhorrent?”

The man sputtered a bit and visibly deflated. “He’s my boy. I don’t want him to do this, put himself in danger.”

“Dad!” The young man protested. “I’ve made my choice. I don’t want to be a baker, I want to be a fighter.  I like women, okay? And I’m not a virgin, for the gods’ sake. I’m seventeen.”

Biting his lip to keep from smiling, Philip caught Andrew’s little cough to cover his laugh. “I can see the two of you need to have a conversation. Andrew, I think Brickman’s ready for his next dose. Can you see to that while Clerk Banner is busy?”

“Of course, Lord Philip.” It was perhaps the first time Andrew had used his title without any trace of irony. “I’ll take care of it.”

Continuing into the next room, he found Carol in a quiet conversation with Natasha. “We were just discussing how fortuitous it was that we went on that ride this morning,” Natasha said when Philip stopped beside her. “And Clint’s very timely arrival. Carol tells me you two fought together well today.”

He knew what she was asking, but he didn’t have any satisfactory answers. Even now, the energy that had been shared between them was still thrumming through his veins. Forewarning had changed to strength as the day progressed, then morphed into a constant state of semi-arousal as they’d cleaned up. Just the thought of Clint, half-standing in his saddle, knees tight, bow drawn, eyes tracking a target was enough to stir Philip’s cock. It was as if all that energy had to go somewhere, to build to a fever-pitch and be released. Preferably with his fingers along Clint’s dirty, sweaty skin as Philip held him down and …

“Lord Philip?” William piped up. “Lord Barton’s asking for you. He’s in the study.”

The two women shared a knowing glance that Philip resolutely ignored. With a nod to them, he headed towards the manor, avoiding Annamarie who was striding across the yard towards the bailey.  Half of him worried that Clint was angry; he had, after all, left Philip in charge and they’d been attacked. Maybe he could have done something differently. But the other half was caught up in a vivid fantasy about folding Clint over the tiny desk just like in his dreams.  Running his hands down Clint’s back, kissing the curve of his neck, curling his fingers around … He brought himself up short as he stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him before he looked up.

Like a fist slamming into his solar plexus, seeing Clint knocked all the breath out of Philip’s chest, leaving only a burning ache. He’d untied his vest, and tossed it over a chair. His linen shirt was half out of the waist band of his trousers and his chainmail still hung from his shoulders; his sword belt was laid aside, so the leather pants hung low on his hips.  Messy and standing on end, his hair stuck in sweaty clumps to the side of his face and hung wet at the back of his neck. Dirt smudged along his cheek and brow, his shirt stained with darker spots, and Philip had never seen someone as attractive in his whole life.  He should say something logical, rational, like “good to see you” or “glad you were there” or “what do you need.” That was what he should do. But he looked directly into those stormy blue-green eyes and all conscious thought blew away.

Philip knew from experience that you did everything possible to keep the separate pockets of flame from coming close to each other in a wild fire. Alone, they’d burn and take out large swaths of land and trees. Get near to another, and they’d jump across the space, combine and combust, bursting violently into balls of fire that consumed massive amounts of fuel and expended even more energy. You build breaks, dug trenches, and do anything possible to stop that from happening. What he didn’t know was that the same could happen between people.

Need flashed into being, so strong he couldn’t fight it, could only go where it lead and that was crashing into Clint’s body, trapping him against the desk and yanking his head back. He took Clint’s mouth with a desperate and rough kiss, caught his hips tight and ground their cocks together. The friction only stoked the fire; energy pooled in his hands, pulsing in time to his racing heartbeat. Then Clint’s hands circled, clasped his ass, and gathered him closer, and Philip knew he was lost in a storm like he’d never known. He wanted his tongue in the velvety wetness of Clint’s mouth, and he stroked along the ridge of teeth until he swallowed the first moan he dragged from Clint’s throat. He craved bare skin, so he tugged Clint’s shirt up over his head, but when Clint tried to take off his mail, Philip stopped him with a curt, “No” so laced with power that Clint’s eyes rolled back and his cock jumped against Philip’s hip. The cool metal was a contrast as the temperature spiraled higher between then; he liked the feel of it pressed into his chest as he bit down on Clint’s lip and earned a loud gasp of pleasure.

“Off,” Clint said as he pushed back. Agile fingers shoved his hands aside; Philip’s belt went onto the desk, his vest thrown backwards, and his shirt ended up hanging from the corner of a chair. Skin glided across skin like a wind across a fire, stirring desire to new heights. A palm splayed on Clint’s lower back, another circled his neck, fingers burrowing into damp hair, and Philip pinned him again as he dived back into Clint’s mouth and the heat of his body. Clint grabbed Philip, hands around his head, thumbs stroking along the line of his jaw. Prickles of stubble scraped down Philip’s neck as Clint kissed his way along the curve, sucking bruises as he went.

The jolt of the desk hitting the wall of shelves made books tumble off, loud thumps as they hit the stone floor.  They paused, looked at each other through the haze of lust, and Philip leaned in to whisper, “Shhhhhhhhh. Someone might hear us.”

Clint moaned. “Oh,” he drew the word out, long and low. His eyes opened, dark and stormy. “I want you to fuck me. Right here.”

“So hard.” Philip agreed, reaching for the small jar in his belt pouch.

There was no stopping the blaze now; they were gone to it, this building force that circled between them.  Boots and pants went, Philip flipped Clint around and bent him forward where he braced his hands on the shelves as Philip slicked a finger and pressed inside. Caught up in the rush, he didn’t think about his inexperience; somehow he knew exactly what Clint liked, just how rough, just the right spot to aim for. When Clint bucked back, he added another finger, tilted his wrist, and made Clint stifle a cry.  Too impatient to wait long, there was no denying themselves; Philip slicked his cock and replaced fingers with his aching cock, pushing in.  The tight heat was almost too much; he could easily come just from the way Clint clenched around him.

“Yes,” Clint dropped his head and pushed back taking him in a little more. “Gods, yes.”

Pulling out halfway, Philip slipped back in, wrapped an arm around Clint’s waist and licked a drop of sweat that dribbled down Clint’s neck before he nipped where the muscle connected.  In his gut he felt the coil tighten and he thrust again, then again, senses stretched by the intimacy of the joining, each plunge bringing them closer to a place he’d never been. The desk rocked as Philip snapped his hips hard, papers floated down, and a ledger tilted and fell.  

Clint was groaning with each thrust now, and Philip wrapped a hand around Clint’s mouth to muffle the sound.  “Shhhhhhh,” he whispered again.

“Fucking librarian,” Clint managed to say between Philip’s fingers before he sucked one in.

The table leg gave out and they went rolling onto the floor; Philip’s knee slammed into the stone and Clint ended up on his back, knocking into the chairs in front of the fire.  None of that stopped them from finding each other again. Hooking Clint’s knee over his shoulder, Philip thrust in hard, looping a hand around Clint’s thigh and splaying his other on Clint’s hip.  Bent almost double, Clint scrabbled until he found Phil’s shoulders to hold onto … and the connection fell into place. Pleasure reverberated from one to the other, the power crackled along skin, and Philip sensed the edge approaching. He wrapped his hand around Clint’s cock and only needed two strokes before Clint was coming with a shout, the warm splash of his orgasm on Phil’s fingers. The energy spilled over at the same time, expanding outward in a wave that took him under. Burying his face in Clint’s leg, he strained forward in his own release, rode the waves of his orgasm, and heard the faint strains of a full-chorded melody, words and odd phrases mixed together

“Phil.” Clint’s voice was calm, even.  He opened his eyes, and saw Clint looking past his shoulder. The desk was floating a few inches off the floor. Books were lazily spinning in place, tiny black spheres of ink bouncing off each other, and the fire flamed with a purple hued light. “It’s all right.”

“No. I …” He couldn’t find the words to explain what was happening.  Panic invaded Philip’s content afterglow, and everything crashed to the ground; he reached for Clint’s hand, uncaring of the mess, the words spilling from his mouth.  “It’s a fixed mark never shaken by the storm.”

“Did you hear it too?” was Clint’s soft question. A soft glow engulfed their entwined fingers, and Philip sat back on the floor as a wave of exhaustion over took him.

“I don’t know what to do about it,” Philip admitted.

“First, we clean up in here.  We’ll talk about this later, preferably in our nice soft bed after I’ve taken you apart slowly, piece by piece.”  Clint levered himself up as a knock sounded on the door. “All’s well, Nat,” he called.

“Oh, gods, what story are we going to tell them?”

“I think they know already know what we’ve been up to. Turns out, you’re the loud one.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that's Bobby Singer from Supernatural. I needed a wise old man and I want Bobby to come back, so here he is. I've already used the Men of Letters, why not a hunter?


	7. The Calm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Discussions ensue and lots of questions are asked ... and there's some answers finally becoming clear. Magic and admissions come not a moment too soon.

Clint was worried about Phil; he was putting on a good face but Clint had seen the exhaustion in his husband’s eyes along with the embarrassed blush in his cheeks as they’d left the study.  To Clint, used to close quarters of a traveling company, being overheard didn’t matter, but Philip came from a different kind of life. He’d stammered when he’d seen Natasha at the end of the hallway, guarding the doorway from prying eyes, and she’d let him brush past her without a word, just an arch of her eyebrow. Not that Clint understood what happened any more than Philip; a post-battle rush he knew, but the need that overwhelmed him, the stirring of energies between them?  Beyond being the most intense experience he’d ever had, he knew there was a relationship between the warning that had driven him to ride hard to get home, the absolute awe at seeing Philip fighting, the moment of pure terror when the bandit had loomed up behind Phil, and the destruction they’d wrought in the study. There was really only one possible answer.

As he’d told Old Man Singer, he had some experience with magic. The further one got from the civilized Midlands, the less the rules applied, and the Outer Isles were the very edges. There’d been a gambler turned pirate who could make his cards into weapons, and a mercenary who seemed unable to die.  Clint had visited real fortune tellers and even heard about a witch who sold hex bags that worked. But what Philip had done? Clint had never seen that much power. 

“Magic? Are we ready to say it out loud?” Carol was the first to bring it out in the open. They’d been dancing around saying it since they’d come together in the Great Hall to hash through the events of the day. “Because we’ll be better able to plan our defense if we admit what we’re facing.”

Standing behind Philip’s chair, Clint rested his hand on Phil’s shoulders and felt a trickle of energy bleed from his fingers into the tired muscles beneath.  “Singer said it was a spell, an order that has to be followed, in this case to find something.” Clint kept the detail about the bandits wanting to kill him out of the discussion.

“A geas.” Philip said. “There are three basic kinds: an oath, a binding, and coerced.  An oath is like a promise with a little more teeth; one person swears to complete a task. Limited time and the penance for failure is light. Bindings need two people who make a pact between them.  The ritual is more involved, failure more serious. Coerced is just that; it is forced upon another.  Tantamount to rape of the will. There is no failure, only death. To coerce more than 30 men? That’s mythical. Or I guess I should say, it was until today.” A moment of silence and a number of stares … except Maria Hill, Clint noticed. She seemed completely unfazed by Philip’s knowledge. 

“The bodies bear all the hallmarks of magical residue,” Banner joined in. “Vascular hemorrhages, signs of dehydration and exhaustion … I can’t know without an autopsy, but I imagine I’ll find enlarged hearts and brains. Magic is hard on the body.”

“Does everyone here know more about this than me?” Carol complained, only half-joking.

“I just nod and pretend to understand,” Maria offered.  “Philip’s been studying his whole life, so I’ve learned to accept his knowledge is endless.”

“Theory, that’s all it is. Most of what I know I learned from songs and stories, oral histories written down by clerks.” Philip had tensed as he spoke; Clint squeezed his fingers in empathy. Having magic had to be a difficult way to grow up. The impulse to secrecy would be ingrained along with the fear of discovery.  What Philip had to do to avoid detection, Clint couldn’t imagine.

 “There are rumors of books out there, Tottle’s Miscellany, the original writings of The Venerable Martin and King Ruel.  But no one’s ever seen a copy,” Banner said.

“TarianCastle has two of Ruel’s journals, but they’re partial pieces, a section that reads like a creation story and another about kinslaying.  Martin says magic comes from faith in the part I’ve read; it’s rare and unstable at best. Tottle’s is a legend; it doesn’t exist.”

Bruce’s eyes lit up. “You’ve held Martin and Ruel? Are they really so small?”

“A third the size of normal texts, with the tiniest of print,” Philip replied.

“Can we get back to the problem at hand? Too many dead bandits for comfort,” Natasha interjected. “You can compare libraries later.”

“And the question of who could cast such a spell, that’s important,” Carol added.

“We start with the locations.” Philip had spread a map on the table after sending William to get it from the hastily reorganized study. “We need to determine why these four, what they have in common, and what specifically they were looking for. That will lead us back to the who and how.”

“Agreed,” Maria said. “Were we back at home, you could search the library and have the answers in a few days.” She meant nothing by her words, but it rankled Clint. This was Philip’s home now.  A spark built in his fingers then a warmth touched him, and he looked down to see Philip’s hand covering his own briefly before retreating; leaning forward, eyes on the parchment, Philip didn’t even notice what he’d done.

“Jasper is the one who developed the indexing system; he’ll be much faster at locating the right books.  And his work is more likely to go unnoticed by the King and Prince Loki,” Philip said.  Maria’s eyes flitted to Clint’s hand, and the edges of her lips curled up.

“I imagine you packed a few books in those wagons as well, ones you thought might be useful.” She took the gentle rebuke in stride.  “We’ll head out in the morning.”

Annamarie came in with more cider, a delicious smell wafting through the door behind her, a spicy cabbage soup Dax had proclaimed was his mother’s recipe.  Bustling around them, she filled their mugs. “Dinner will be ready in a half hour; if you don’t want everyone privy to your business, you’d best finish before then.”

“Still as sassy as ever, I see.” When Clint first saw Annamarie, he’d been surprised that she’d agreed to take on her late mother’s role, but he’d forgotten just how strong she’d been even as a girl. “If any snakes turn up in my bed, I’ll know who to blame.”

“Ha, that was you, Clint Barton.” She sat down the pitcher and put her hands on her hips. “Ink on my pigtails, and you ruined my bread by replacing the salt with sugar.”

“I remember things quite differently.” They’d been like that as children, Annamarie only two years older than him and living in the manor with her mother. Always trading pranks back and forth, sometimes at each other’s throats and sometimes thick as thieves.  “Did she tell you that she was my first kiss? She wanted to practice on someone before she kissed the boy she was madly in love with. What was his name? Ethan? Edward? Eric?”

“Timothy Dugan,” Annamarie said as she ignored Clint’s jabs, point to the marked areas on the map. “All of these relate to him if you believe the old stories.”

“Dum Dum Dugan?” Philip asked. Clint wracked his brain to remember where he’d heard that name before.  “Thane of Lord Rogers?”

“Wait, the tales your grandfather used to regale us with?” Clint asked. He’d always been asked to spin a tale on long winter nights and he’d known very old ones.

“The legend goes that during the final days, many of those last battles were fought here.” Annamarie’s voice changed, taking on the musical cadence of a storyteller. “The Red Sorcerer changed the very landscape with his magics, and only the hardiest of the people stayed in their homes. Most fled to the security of the middle lands, but Lord Roger’s thanes hounded the evil sorcerer, leaving him no way to escape.”

“Hawk’s Leap,” Clint pointed to the location. “The bandit’s base.  We can add that point as well.”

“The battle where Lord Rogers comes close to winning; the Red Sorcerer had to use all of his remaining power to create the tor, only just escaping.” Philip nodded then noticed the looks of the others. “My father was a scholar; he wrote a number of books on Lord Rogers including one positing which real sites correspond to the myths. Hawk’s Leap was on his short list as the Battle of the Bavria.”

“ _The Real Paladin_?” Banner asked. “I’ve read that one. Interesting if a little … thorough.”

“Obsessive. You can say that. A good man, my father, but his studies were his first love,” Philip calmly replied. “Please continue, Annamarie.”

 “Howling Vale, the place that Thane Barnes fell.”  She touched the remote spot. Philip looked like he wanted to say something, but he stayed silent and let her continue. “Lord Rogers pursued the Red Sorcerer to his fortress at the highest peak of the mountains, where the Great Red Dragon lay waiting his master’s bidding … and you know the story from there so I’ll jump ahead to Dugan’s final days … As my grandfather told it, Dugan met a young woman here while recovering from his injuries; after Lord Rogers disappeared, the thanes split up to go back to their homes, and Dugan returned for his love. They married and settled in what would come to be known as Caine’s Crossing, named in honor of Dugan’s eldest son. Depending upon who you ask, you’ll hear that the wife was a Frasier, a Ferguson, or a McCarter, the three oldest families of the holding. Everyone claims to be descendants of Dugan.”

“And the other locations?” Carol asked. “How do they relate?”

“The burrows are where Dugan is supposedly buried; he was much older than his wife, so she outlived him and retired to the Abbey to live out the last of her days after her daughter-in-law took over the household.  They also supposedly came to Frasier Town regularly, even had a house there.”

Clint unfocused his eyes and surveyed the map again. A deep breath and he centered himself, a pulse of energy flowing up his arm. “They think Dugan had an item of power, something that would have been present during the battles, something he brought back with him when he settled down.”

“There’s one tale,” Philip said, “where Lord Rogers stripped off his armor, left his sword and shield with his thanes before he took on the dragon. An ancient idea that a warrior was made great by strength of will, not his armaments. It’s an odd tale; the rest all agree Stephen’s famous weapons went down with him.”

“Roger’s sword or shield? That would be worth an immeasurable amount of gold.” Natasha, ever the practical one, noted.

“Weren’t they supposed to be magical? His whole armor as well. Enspelled with a number of protections,” Banner said. 

“Beyond all, the finding would validate those who believe sorcerers and dragons existed.” Clint was thinking ahead. “Some groups would prefer magic stay a legend.”

“So we’re looking for someone who wants to find whatever Dugan had, assuming he had anything to begin with, and is willing to expend untold amounts of energy to get it.” Philip took up the thread. “To gain the power, to keep it hidden, to cause trouble or another reason we haven’t even thought of.”

“We find it before he does. Or she.  Then they come to us.” Carol put down her mug. Heads nodded in agreement

“There are ways to look,” Banner said. “It will give off a certain signature that a sensitive could pick up, if you can find one. There will be other clues; magic draws certain types of creatures and strong power can affect the weather patterns.”

“The rugars and the gimlets? You think this thing is upsetting them?” Clint was sure all of the incidents in the last few years were related. “But if there is something, it’s been sitting around for centuries without any problem.”

“There’s a cave down near the shore on Stark land, uncovered by a hurricane a few years ago. They found machines and a whole trove of books, carefully packed away, because a torch began to emit light after the storm,” Philip suggested. “If this thing’s been activated, it could be causing the animals to react. Or it could have drawn something else here that’s got them scared.”

“I know a woman who can find things just by thinking about them; she makes a good living in the Capital working in the Sonian Library locating items in storage,” Natasha said. “The trip would take a few weeks, but I could have her here before the Fall Festival. She owes me.”

Philip tensed, and Clint knew he was thinking of his own secret. It was going to take time for Philip to realize he was safe here, that his magic wasn’t something any of them feared. First steps first; the two of them needed to talk. Clint just hoped he could manage to stay awake long enough; the hard ride to get here and then the battle had left him tired as well.

“Carol, split up some teams, people we can trust, and send them out to canvas these areas. Annamarie, any more history or stories you can remember, bring them to Philip to correlate. Nat, head out in the morning to get your friend. Tell her we’ll pay for her time. And Thane Hill, I’d appreciate if you’d bring the situation to Lord Fury’s attention plus send us any information your man can find.” Clint saw the pages hovering at the doorway, ready to begin setting up for dinner. “I’ll send word to Jessica to talk to Old Man Singer, see what he knows, maybe drag him here as well.”

The guards’ laughter filled the hall as they began to trickle in to their places. A successful defense of the city with no fatalities was something worth celebrating; Clint just wished he’d had time to do more than a quick wash before dinner began. A clean shirt and vest helped, but the water in the pitcher had been cold and his hair was dirty against his scalp. He was getting soft; there’d been times when he went months without more than a dip in a stream or river, but living in the manor reminded him of warm baths and his mother’s favorite rosemary scented soap.

More people crowded the benches than Clint had seen before; three tables were filled with townspeople, women and men of varying ages. Carol sat among unfamiliar guards, and Clint could see his company mixed throughout, newcomers hanging on the tales of the veterans. The squires and the three boys ran between tables, bringing out fragrant pots of a steaming soup that smelled of chilies with just a touch of maple and looked like fall in a cup. A couple young women brought out coarse brown bread that, when torn open, was dense and chewy inside with a hint of nuttiness. Occasionally, Annamarie stepped into the doorway from the kitchen, surveying the organized chaos, nodded to herself, and stepped away.

“You’ve been busy,” Clint said to Philip; his replying smile was confident.

“This is just the beginning. The Hall’s roof is progressing nicely, and we think we have time to get a whole new one on the surviving wing before first snowfall.  I have so much to get your opinion on … the guardhouse plans are ready and, if we go with a plaster and lathe temporary construction, we can get something up before Winter Fest. That will alleviate the overcrowding, and if we shore up the walls of the stables, add doors, and heating pipes from the main fireplace, we’ll have room for all the guard and most of the servants with some space here in the Manor for Annamarie.” Philip tilted his bowl and caught the last drops with his spoon.

The main course arrived, roast beef with crispy potatoes seasoned with a reddish spice. Everyone tucked in, the hearty meal what they needed after a fight. Clint found himself with little time to ponder all that Philip had accomplished; Banner struck up a conversation about Philip’s father’s theories and the two spoke across Clint. He joined in when he thought he had something to add, and, surprisingly, he knew some tidbits from his travels that neither man had ever heard before. Soon, the plates disappeared, his glass was filled with yet another glass of dark red wine, and Clint decided it was time to make a circuit of the room.  As he pushed back his chair, he felt worn down, but he pushed it aside.

“Introduce me?” He asked Philip, holding out his hand. Surprised, Philip nodded and slipped his palm into Clint’s. They went down the steps of the dais together. Lord and Lady, Lord and Lord, the visual was the same; they were a unified front.  Plus, he enjoyed watching Philip work his way around the room. At every stop, Philip knew the peoples’ names and a little about them; Clint shook hands with the workers, tipped his head slightly to young women, and slapped new guard members on the back, wishing them well. They ended up near Carol who was sitting beside Jamison with his leg propped up on a stool. Just then a platter of little pastries appeared; triangles of cobweb thin layers of dough decked with cinnamon, sugar, and nuts mixed in between and a sweet syrup over it all that stuck to Clint’s fingers and made him immediately reach for another.

“Rachel was right,” Philip said after he snagged a second piece from the quickly emptying plate. “Melts in your mouth.”

“Rachel made these?” Clint asked; Jamison laughed and smacked Andrew’s hand away from the last pastry.

“And the bread. She made a pecan pie the other night so good that I thought blood might be spilled over the last slice. Woman has magic fingers … among other things,” Jamison said.

“True. I’d have fought any who’d tried to take my slice,” Carol agreed. “Mark my words, the likes of Stark or some Capital nobleman will be luring her away once the word gets out.”

“Aye, that would make her happy.” Andrew winked. “Always has said she was destined for great things or great men whichever came first.”  The whole table laughed at the word play.

“How’s Brickman?” Philip asked Andrew, and Clint wondered when the two of them had come to the point that they were talking to each other so civilly.

“Feeling no pain and complaining about missing dessert. I told him he could stand to skip a few sweets,” Andrew said with a smile. “Clerk Banner’s very good; looks like Brickman will make a full recovery.”

“You’re working with Banner?” Clint felt like he was a few steps behind, and he wasn’t sure he liked that.

“Just helping. Mostly holding hands and applying bandages.” Andrew absently patted Clint on the knee. He narrowed his eyes and looked hard at Clint. “However, I know enough to tell you are close to falling over. Lord Philip, you need to take this man to bed.”

Clint sputtered as red flushed up Philip’s neck, but before he could answer, Philip spoke. “He does look tired, I agree.” He raked his eyes over Clint up and down. “However, I’m not sure that’s the best recipe for rest.”

Laughter burst out at Philip’s calm assertion, and Clint masked his surprise. He’d seen the awkward Philip in the bedroom, when discussing desire made him blush. Here Philip was, joking and at ease. 

“Rodriguez is asleep as we speak,” Carol said. “After days in the saddle and the fighting, she was more than willing to take the teasing if it meant she got some rest. No one will begrudge you, both of you, an early evening.” Her blue eyes sparkled with mischief; she obviously had heard about the noise from the study, and from the looks the others shared, their earlier tryst was well-known.

“You rode straight here?” Philip asked; of course he didn’t know. Clint hadn’t had time to share more than a few private words … if he didn’t count the pleas to be taken in the study.

“It wasn’t that far,” Clint said, shrugging off the feat. Philip didn’t look like he wanted to let it go, but he did. “I admit some cool sheets and a soft bed would be welcome.”

“You should go,” Philip took his hand, and Clint followed, content to be led if it meant they might have a few moments together.

“Only if you come with me.” Clint tugged him to one side of the stairs. “To talk.”

He thought Philip was going to decline but then he nodded. “Let me speak to Annamarie while you make our apologies.” It didn’t take long to take their leave; a few people even mentioned Clint’s long ride and the battle earlier. Natasha merely raised an eyebrow, and Banner handed him a tisane mix for a restful sleep. He slipped out the door and down the hallway, catching Annamarie leaving their room with a knowing smile on her face that made him stop. She waved him in and hurried away. 

In front of the fireplace, the chairs and tables moved out of the way, was a large metal bathing tub. It wasn’t deep – the sides would come up to his armpits when he sat inside -- but the long length was unusual. Clint could probably lie down in it, completely immersed, and maybe even float. By the fireplace, a kettle of water was heating.

“Where did you find that?” Clint had to ask.

“Annamarie. It belonged to the Beorn family; from what I understand, he was a large man and had it special made. He passed away last year and the wife was happy to sell it off to the Lord of the Manor.  After your long journey, I thought you might enjoy cleaning up a bit.”

“Oh gods, yes. Going to bed clean is a luxury that’s worth the trouble.” Clint started unbuttoning his vest. “One of the things I never thought I’d miss. I hated baths when I was a boy. The water would be cold by the time I got my turn, all dirty with soap scum.” He tossed his vest over a chair and pulled his shirt out of his pants. “I saw this bath in a Magistrate’s house down in Aimi Keys. A tiled circle in the floor with seats around the edge, you could sink up to your neck. Water went out through a drain in the floor; just pull out the plug and it was gone.”

“Stark has water that flows from a pipe into his tub with drains as well. The water sits in a tank beside the fireplace so it’s warm when it comes out.” Philip dipped a finger to test the water temperature. “We could easily put drains in the rebuilt section of the Manor, a nice big tub in its own room. The inflow pipes are a different story; we’d need a specialized craftsman for that.”

“A bathing room? My mother would have loved that. Her weekly baths were one of her great pleasures. Woe to anyone who interrupted her. The maids would keep refreshing the water for a good hour. It was her one luxury; water was free.”  Clint sat down on the edge of the bed and started pulling off his boots.  After the first one hit the floor, he took off his sock and wiggled his toes.

“My mother always had dirt under her fingernails; she was an avid gardener. “ Philip was just standing, watching Clint undress.  With a sigh, Clint decided he’d have to address the problem head on.

“I thought this discussion might be easier in a tub of hot water; it’s big enough for two.” Clint tugged off the second boot.  “After the study earlier, I had hoped we were past the awkwardness.” He padded over in his bare feet to where Philip stood. “I agreed to this marriage because I needed someone who could organize this place, help get it back on its feet. Plus, Fury’s protection is important to keeping my people safe, although what Fury got in exchange I can’t understand. But this,” Clint raised his hand and ran his thumb along Philips jaw; Phil shivered and his eyes widened, “was a bonus I never expected. So can we acknowledge it instead of fight it?”

Just a week and Clint already knew that crinkle of his forehead meant Philip was thinking, so he waited, stroking his fingers along the side of Philip’s face and down his neck.  When his eyelids drifted closed, Clint had won the battle.

“The water should be hot enough.” Swinging the iron arm out, Philip brought the pot over the tub.

A knock on the door, and Annamarie came in with an armful of clean towels. “I brought a couple, just in case. Here’s some of Donegal’s soap – a nice masculine scent, don’t worry. Toss the towels outside the door when you’re done, and I’ll send someone in who can be quiet,” she said, hardly glancing at Clint’s bare chest.

“I could have been naked, you know,” Clint pushed back; he had to thank Philip for getting her to agree to this position. Having her around reminded him of some of the best parts of his childhood.

“Like I haven’t seen it all already,” she huffed. “Always did have a problem with shirts, and you were constantly skinny dipping down by the mill.”

“First time we met, he had his shirt off,” Philip said.

“I’ve heard that story,” she dropped the towels on the edge of the bed and handed the soap over to Clint. “Be a good one to tell your heirs one day. Get some rest. You both deserve it.”

After she shut the door, Philip tipped up the pot and the water filled the tub.  Clint stripped off his pants and tossed them with his shirt. A perfect temperature, Clint swung his foot over and got in, his body slowly growing accustomed as he sank down.

“So, your mother liked to garden and your father was a scholar?” He sat back in the tub, his feet not touching the other end and looked expectantly up at Philip. Watching the other man undress was a treat; Philip took care of his clothes, folding them neatly since he’d changed before dinner.  Clint relaxed into the heat and enjoyed the reveal of each area of skin.

“They were both gentle souls. Had my father not been an only child, he’d have ended up at university. He was always happiest surrounded by his books.” Philip blushed under Clint’s stare as he took off his boots and reached for his laces. “Mother’s talent was herbs; she made salves, soaps, and lotions. Unfortunately, neither of them had the ability to run a holding, even a small one like Coul Hall.”

Clint dipped the soap in the water and started lathering up his hands. “Is that Fury’s land now?”

“Actually, it’s part of yours; Nick gifted it to me on my eighteenth birthday. One of my cousins lives there with her family; she’s quite adept with finances and has a passel of heirs to choose from.” Long and lean body on display, Philip didn’t know what to do with his hands, so he motioned Clint to slide forward and sat down behind him. The water level rose but stopped short of the rim as Philip’s legs slipped between Clint and the metal sides. “She takes after my grandmother Margerite de Valois. Megs, as she liked to be called, was gifted with the organizational skills to mount a major military campaign. After my parents married, she moved in with my mother and took over management, much to my father’s delight. Mother’s family is in line for the throne – 42nd, I believe at this point – but they are poor relations. Coulson was a new name in the registry; all told, their union could have been much worse. They were … companionable. We had discussions at the dinner table about history and botany, and Megs taught me everything I needed to know to be a good steward.”

He reached around and Clint dropped the bar into his palm; within a minute, sudsy hands were massaging his back.  Clint tried not to flinch when Philip’s fingers traced over an old sword scar on his back.  “And where does the magic come from?”

Philip’s hands stilled for an agonizing second then started moving again.

“Now that’s an interesting story.” His laugh was hollow and bitter. “Contrary to rumors, mother was not a witch. Her talent was well within the range of normal behavior. Father was intelligent, very good at solving puzzles, but he too was normal. The magic came from my paternal grandfather, Albert Coulson. He died when I was just a year old, but according to his valet, he could light a candle, move things, and control people with incantations.”

Clint snagged the bucket and scooped up some water to pour over his head and wet his hair before washing it. “Like levitating the books and furniture in the library?”

“Not exactly the same. Magic is different for each person, but Grandfather Coulson was a wizard and I’m not.” Philip’s fingers pushed Clint’s aside and massaged into his scalp, scrubbing his hair clean. The feeling was so domestic and still sent a rush of heat down to Clint’s cock which stirred even more; sitting naked together, Philip’s knees against Clint’s sides, his feet tucked under Clint’s shins was giving Clint ideas, waking parts of him up.  “Witches and wizards need spells or recipes; they make potions, mixtures, elixirs, use incantations, all of which are limited in scope.  That’s why they are the most common types of magic users; they’re still around today, just very low powered.”

“And a mage?” Clint slumped down when he rinsed his hair, keeping the water in the tub. Of course it made sense that Philip had researched the topic to learn as much as he could.

“Mages and Sorcerers are rarer. They don’t need components or spells; they use the force of their will to control the energies and their body as a conduit.”  Philip seemed to hesitate then, his fingers floating away. “You truly want me to act upon this?”

For a second, Clint didn’t understand the question then Philip’s hands settled on the small of his back with gentle touches.  “Yes. There is no shame about admitting desires between us.”

“Slide back then,” Philip asked, tugging. Clint scooted back until he could lean onto Philip’s chest and rest his head on Philip’s shoulder. Their bodies molded together and Clint draped his arms along the rim of the tub as Philip’s arms circled his waist.  A steady heartbeat matched his own, breaths synced, and he hardened further at the feel of Philip’s own cock jumping in response.

“Better?” A hum, low but consistent, kept Clint’s exhaustion at bay. “So. Mages are rare?”

He could feel the vibration of the words send little tremors through their skins as Philip spoke.  “Only seen in times of great tribulation, when sorcerers arise.”

“And that’s what you are.” Not a question; Clint was sure.  Philip tightened his thighs as he tensed his body; turning his head, Clint touched his nose to the skin along the sensitive line of Philip’s neck. “You’re not a sorcerer, Phil. I’ve heard the stories too. They are twisted and dark, self-centered with no empathy. You are the complete opposite.”

Philip let out a long breath and shifted closer.  “My grandfather was not a good man, Clint. He was harsh and treated the servants terribly. One time he thought a maid had been stealing and told her to ‘go away; she walked until she passed out. Only a passerby saved her from freezing to death. Had he been more powerful, who knows what he would have become?”

“You didn’t fire any of the company or the followers, Phil.  You somehow have the three terrors calling you Lord Philip and wearing clean clothes on a daily basis. Annamarie came back because you asked her.  In a week’s time, I’ve got a partial new roof, a clerk in town, and better food than I’ve had in ages. You care about people.” Clint only had to tilt his head up slightly, and their lips were close enough for a gentle caress. Slow and sweet, he dropped a series of little kisses across and back along the full bottom lip. Dropping his hands onto Philip’s knees, he wiggled his ass and laughed when Philip’s cock strained against him. The hum grew into a melody that was faint but discernible as he explored Philip’s mouth.

“What is magic like for you?” Philip whispered, his breath puffs of heat along Clint’s cheek.

“Me? I don’t have any magic,” Clint denied.

The music jangled and then Philip splayed his hands on Clint’s stomach and it settled back into harmony. “Clint, I’ve never seen a reaction between two people like this before, have never even read about something like this.”

“It’s just a talent like you said, within the range of normal. That’s all.” He’d refused it for so long that it was second nature even when faced with concrete evidence.  Just practice and experience and exercise, nothing special.  Clint was a mess, not a magic user.

“Clint.” Philip slipped his other hand further down until it rested on Clint’s thigh in the warm water. “Fury chose you as one of his thanes. He picked you for a reason; that’s his gift, sensing potential. He’s the reason Lord Stoner gave me a second glance. You have a gift that’s powerful.”

He shook his head. “I’m just a mercenary who never expected to inherit,” he argued. Gift was a term reserved for the heroes of old stories, those with enhanced abilities who could tap into the power around them, and that wasn’t him.

“Who happens to have three loyal thanes and a company that loves you?” Philip’s fingers traced circles on his sensitive inner thigh and the top of his hand; Clint had trouble thinking coherently when the harmony thrummed in rhythm. “You’re more than that, and you know it.”

“I can’t …” He gave himself and let it carry him up as the slide of skin against skin built. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. Fury thinks we can hold the line here because he believes what’s coming is bad, doesn’t he?”

“Yes.” That was all Philip needed to say; the specifics might be cast in shadow, but there was no denying what was in front of them. Philip was an untrained powerful mage, and Clint’s own gift was manifesting.

“I’ve always heard notes when I shoot, a simple melody, but it’s changing now. Fuller, more tones.”  The theme grew more complex as he spoke as if the words themselves incited new heights. 

“Mmmmm,” Philip nuzzled into Clint’s hair. “They say that some Breton and Pictish heroes sang during battle.”

“I’ve sung for my supper before, but never during a fight.” Clint’s hand covered Philip’s and shifted it a little higher so his fingers brushed the aching skin of Clint’s cock. He gave a long slow sigh as Philip traced up and down, light and teasing. Clint busied his own hands rubbing along Philip’s legs, encouraging the exploration.  Fingers curled around and Philip’s thumb stroked the silky head, circling and finding the spot just below the cleft that made Clint bite back a moan.  Philip drew a line back along the vein, just the right pressure, and Clint couldn’t help the tiny little thrust his hips gave in response. The music became more primal, a major chord with a driving beat; Philip’s other hand made a slow journey up to tweak Clint’s nipple and a spark of energy added to the mix. Clint wrapped his hand around Phil’s and started a rhythm, an undercurrent that matched the song playing in his head.

“What do you think about bookshelves?” Clint asked, closing his eyes to enjoy the wet slide of hands. “In the master’s bedroom for the new wing. A fireplace with plenty of room for chairs and a table or desk for us. A mini-library. And a big bed…” he paused as the tension coiled in his gut, “…with sturdy slats for you to hold onto.”

Philip’s laugh was easy and natural; he pinched Clint’s nipple in reply. “To go with the bathing room? I’ll ask the architect to add some chains as well, shall I?”

“Considering … oh … what everyone heard this afternoon …” Clint arched up into Philip’s hand as he twisted just below the tip then dragged back down. “Oh, Phil … I don’t think … any request … will … surprise …” He stopped trying to form words and groaned at the sensation; even as weary as he was, Phil’s touch energized him and pushed him right to the edge of release. Dropping his head back, he turned and buried his head in Philip’s neck, breathing in the scent of soap and the faint hint of sweat as he fell apart, muscles clenching and releasing until he felt like he was floating on the music, buoyed up by the water.

“Ready to stand up?” Philip asked; Clint didn’t know how long he’d been half-out of consciousness. The bone-deep need for rest was back, but he could manage to get out of the tub and take care of Phil first. Pulling himself up with some effort, he reached for a towel; rather than dry off, he turned and wrapped the cloth around Philip’s back, drawing him until their wet bodies were plastered against each other. Clint kissed him then, the heat from the fire warming one side and the cool air of the room chilling the other. Drops of water ran down from his hair, gliding over cheeks and along his jaw as he slipped his tongue between Philip’s lips and languidly stroked inside. The hard line of Philip’s cock rested along Clint’s hip bone, the beads of pearly pre-liquid rubbing against his bare skin.  Holding the edges of the towel tight, he kept Phil trapped there, at his mercy to explore every inch of lips and then nibble along the curve of his jaw, the raspy stubble under his tongue. When Philip shivered, Clint finally pulled back and let him go; stepping over the metal side, they both got out of the water and Clint used the chill as an excuse to towel Philip dry, touching as much skin as he could before he gave a quick tousle to his own hair. Tossing the cloth on the floor, he pushed Philip against the footboard and kissed along Phil’s neck and shoulder, nipping as he switched sides.  Then the hollow of Philip’s collarbone, a line down his chest, and Clint swiped his tongue over one nipple as his hands cupped the curve of Philip’s ass. The most delicious noises came from deep in Philip’s throat and urged Clint to suck the nub into his mouth.

“Oh,” was Philip’s exclamation as his hips arched out; he grabbed onto the footboard rail when Clint moved to the other nipple and gave it as much attention as the first.  Weariness made him slower, more thorough; his full attention given over to Philip’s quickening breaths.  He gave in, then, following the trail of dark soft hair and easing down to his knees. Energy pulsed with each graze of lips until he could feel it dancing beneath his scalp and along his spine.  Adjusting his hands, he anchored his thumbs on Philip’s hip bones and blew warm air along the hard length, glancing up to watch Philip’s eyes squeeze close and his lips part in a moan. Clint started by following the cleft then circling around the edge with just the tip of his tongue, catching the drops that hung there.

“Gods,” Philip groaned. Thorough hooded eyes, Clint looked up one last time then slowly swallowed the head and sucked gently. “Oh, oh, oh.”

A little further each time, Clint slid down and back up, increasing the pressure as he did. Phil was heavy and silky in his mouth; Clint enjoyed every sensation from the tickle of wiry hair on his nose to the too full feeling when Phil bumped the back of his throat to the way Philip’s muscles flexed and tensed under his palms. Abortive small thrusts signaled Philip needed more, but he held himself back; Clint pulled off and reached carefully for Phil’s hands. With deliberate movements, he placed each one around the back of his head and put his own back on Phil’s hips.  Then he waited, mouth poised just beyond the tip of Phil’s aching cock. The first push was far too gentle, so Clint swirled his tongue and rubbed the dip at the back of the head. Phil gasped and thrust in harder, his fingers clenching into Clint’s hair. Humming along with the melody in his head, Clint raised his tongue and scraped along the bottom as Philip thrust again, and he knew he’d won when Philip cursed, hung onto Clint’s head and began to jerk his hips harder.

More aware now, Clint could feel the musical energy dance along his skin, flowing out of Philip’s hands and along Clint’s arms. As Philip’s body’s tension rose, so too did the charge; when he stuttered and strained, Philip tried to pull out to finish, but Clint refused, taking him down to the root and swallowing when Philip came with a cry.  Philip sagged against the bed, and Clint swiped the corners of his mouth with his thumb, licking it clean, grinning at his husband’s eyes so wide and blown open by pleasure.

“No one’s ever done that,” Philip murmured.

“You’ve never had a …” Clint couldn’t believe that.

“Swallowed.” Philip’s smiled was very much like a cat that’d gotten into the cream. “It’s very … intimate.”

Hoisting himself up, Clint leaned in, stopping just short of Phil’s lips. “Would you like a taste?” When Philip nodded, dazed by the idea, Clint kissed him, deep and dirty, sharing the flavor with him.

“Oh.” More exhale than word. “That’s …” His eyes floated over Clint’s shoulder, and he stopped talking. Clint turned; hanging a good three feet above the tub, the bathwater was expanding. The drops that came too close to the fire turned to a steamy mist and floated higher. “Fuck,” Philip said.

“It’s okay; you can take care of this.”  Clint twined their hands together and envisioned the chord hanging in the air before them. The water coalesced back into a smaller cloud, but drifted towards the fire; the room grew noticeably warmer with the moist air. “Clear your mind, like you’re training, getting ready to spar. Then move it back over the tub.”

“I don’t know how. That’s the problem; I can’t control it. Never have been able to.” Philip was almost vibrating now with unease and doubt. Clint squeezed his hand and reached for the other.

“Together then. Close the circle, take what you need.”

Nodding, Philip closed his eyes and tugged until Clint was leaning alongside him; ever so slowly the mass of liquid lowered and centered until it was only a foot above the tub and Philip was sweating from the intensity of his focus. The chord started to fade and Clint saw black spots on the edge of his vision, but he held on.

Voices in the hallway shattered the quiet; the water crashed down into the metal tub, some splashing on the stones around. Philip wavered, and Clint caught him, barely upright himself. Even their combined power wasn’t enough to stop the crash from coming this time. Depositing Philip on the edge of his side of the bed, Clint managed to weave his way to his own side, flopping down on his back and heaving a sigh as his eyelids closed.

“Pants.” Philip was telling him something, and Clint forced himself to take the bottoms and get them on. A door opened and closed, a weight sank down next to him before an arm snaked over his chest and reeled him into Philip’s side. Then, he let darkness of sleep claim him.

_  
_

_The faint sound of music drew him onward, through the ruined rooms filled with broken furniture: moth eaten mattress, tumbled shelves with moldy books, and an upturned battered bathtub. He couldn’t find his way out of his mother’s room, walls spinning and becoming the Mill and then the street where he’d met Natasha, all of them abandoned and decaying. Theodore, William, and Nathan darted around him and down into the mouth of a cave with glowing green walls. Barreling through the opening, he was in the town square, dancers twirling to the music, loud laughter and excited voices. Philip retreated through the crowd; Clint tried to catch up, but men with glowing blue eyes formed a wall that he couldn’t breach. Struggling, he forced them to part and ran after Philip, grabbing his arm and swinging him around. Blue eyes in a startling pale face with hair as dark as night looked at him._

_He hid, huddled under his father’s desk, shaking with the old childish fear that he’d be found; the sounds of the bully’s taunts echoed in his ears as he crawled out and tried to find the door, but there were overturned chairs and haphazard piles of books in his way. Overgrown bushes and tangled weeds choked the path in his mother’s garden, scratching his bare arms as he struggled through, looking for the exit. Behind him, his grandfather’s voice found him. “Go away,” he commanded, and Philip ran, stumbling past the cave entrance, hearing the music in the square, catching a glimpse of blonde hair in front of him. Men with glowing blue eyes blocked his way, and he laid his hands on their chests, releasing his power with a sharp crack and smell of burnt flesh. He grabbed Clint’s arm and swung him around. Blue eyes in a startling pale face with hair as dark as night looked at him._

 

“Ah, there you are.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I'm having fun with names here. Dum Dum Dugan is one of the Howling Commandos from Captain America. Martin and Ruel are an homage to my favorite epic fantasy authors, George R. R. and J. R. R. Tolkien. Beorn is from The Hobbit. The magic system is all my own.
> 
> Hang on to your seats. The action kicks into high gear; Loki's on his way.


	8. Marking Territory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fall Faire opens and Clint's unhappy to be the center of attention, but Philip is busy learning that everyone already knows his secret. A visitor brings news.

“I can’t believe you talked me into this.”

That phrase seemed to be a mantra around Barton Manor in the last few weeks, Philip thought. So many changes happening, some obvious, some not. He’d said the exact thing to Clint about creating a workshop on the outskirts of the Manor’s grounds, a place to study and practice without being noticed. Uncomfortable with the word magic, Philip was even more skittish about trying to actively use his skill. He and Clint had a number of discussions, a few with raised voices that bordered upon arguments, and Philip still wasn’t sold on the idea. Clint didn’t seem to understand the potential for damage Philip was capable of. But he’d moved an old anvil along with heavy wooden tables into the hastily repaired rectangular cottage and even unpacked his books for the new shelves Clint had installed. A few times, if for nothing else, he bled off the extra charges that built so quickly after he and Clint were together.

“It’s traditional for the Lord of the Manor to participate in the exhibition before the Faire.” Philip kept his tone even despite having had the same conversation twice a day for the last week. Clint didn’t like being the center of attention; he could lead a force into battle without blinking an eye, but ask him to speak in front of a crowd of townsfolk, and he turned white at the mere idea. 

“I feel like a traveling performer or trained bear.” He turned, straightening his practice vest as he stood in the shadow of the new guard house. The walls were raised last week and the roof beams went up with the help of the townsfolk who came out for the afternoon. Not only had they gotten most of the building framed in and ready to be completed, but an amazing amount of food had appeared – beef stew in brown bread bowls and some fried apple concoction wrapped in the thinnest, crispiest dough Philip had ever eaten. What started as a working day ended with a party atmosphere when Clint ordered a barrel of hard cider opened; Philip had to admit that a slightly drunk Bruce Banner was very entertaining while Mayor Garrett asked even more annoying questions after a full mug.

Still, weatherproofing was almost finished, and the guards were moving in as fast as new furniture appeared from busy carpenter’s shops. Shaped like an L with the longer wing facing the practice grounds, the central tower held Carol’s quarters on the second floor. She’d insisted on being housed with the rest of the troop, and Clint had agreed; her only concession was a private bathing room off her bedroom so she didn’t have to use the shared rooms in each wing.

Philip was looking forward to the extra space in the Manor. He’d set a team to repurposing the now empty stables to create a series of warm rooms for the grooms and better stalls for the horses. That would leave Natasha and Jessica in the Hall, open up space for Annamarie’s family, and give them a guest room or two plus plenty of space for the servants. Dax opted to stay in his small room off the kitchen, and the three boys got a little room on the second floor right by the chimney with bunk beds to share. There was a moment of awkwardness when Garrett asked about the Lords’ suite, assuming Philip and Clint would move up to the newly opened portion of the second floor and into separate beds. After all, it was rare for married nobility to share a room, much less sleeping together every night. Clint, thankfully, had glossed right over that, neither answering nor confirming their intimacy which was what Garrett was fishing for.

Of all the changes in Philip’s life in the last month, the reality of his marital bed was the most unexpected. He couldn’t even use the term bed; Clint believed in sex in every location, position, and time of day, and Philip never turned him down. Even when they were angry with each other – and that happened, short words and disappointed glances – Philip’s desire didn’t lessen any. In fact, sometimes his ire fueled the need like tossing a dry log on a sputtering fire. They spent their nights wrapped around each other, getting used to such close proximity that Philip found it hard to sleep alone when Clint was gone with a search team or off on hold business. He missed the way Clint snaked his arms around him and buried his head in the crook of Philip’s neck, the comforting weight of Clint’s body anchoring his own.  Occasionally, in the dark of the night, he’d wonder if he shouldn’t be scared of this bone deep lust that overwhelmed him, but then Clint would sigh in his sleep and hook an ankle over Philip’s to drag him closer, and the thought would fly out of his head.

The gathered crowd cheered as Carol stepped off the field, Jessica and Rodriguez behind her. There’d been little time for Philip to organize a tournament of any size, so he’d opted for an exhibition on opening day and contests for the second. Awards would be given on the third and final day. The signups had gone well, quite a number of new guards and locals coming to try their mettle against company members in diverse areas like swordplay, archery, and tilting. Carol had suggested wrestling, and Clint added the pole toss where entrants hefted hewn logs and tried to throw them. A tradition, Clint had said, from his grandfather’s time; over 20 men and two women had entered their names on the lists for that feat of strength.

“I didn’t realize how limber Jessica is,” Philip said, changing the subject to distract Clint. “With Rodriguez using her staff and Carol’s sword, I’m surprised at how quick Jessica reacted. Running up the wall to escape? Amazing.”

“Jess’s training was unconventional,” Clint said; despite their closeness in bed, Clint remained close mouthed about the three women he’d chosen as thanes. Their stories to tell, he’d said. “They were good, weren’t they?”

“You’re going to be good too.” Philip assured him. “I can’t believe you’re going to ride Lucky without a saddle.”

“Shooting bareback is easy.” Clint leaned in. “Sex in the saddle? Now that’s a little tricky, but it’s worth the trouble if you want to try.”

And just like that, the heat flared between them. Philip wanted to run his hands along those bare biceps just to see what Clint would do. “That’s impossible,” he declared because he absolutely couldn’t picture the logistics.

“Oh, I’ll show you if you like. Takes some planning, but the rocking motion more than makes up for it,” Clint was virtually whispering as the groom walked his horse up to the ready line and others set up the field. With a sexy grin, he left Philip sputtering and turned to the three troop members that were joining him in the archery display for last minute instructions. Rather than pick them himself, Clint had let all those interested show their skills and be voted on by the others.

“A good beginning to the Faire,” Bruce Banner said as he stepped up beside Philip.  “The crowd’s getting bigger.”

“Don’t let Clint hear you say that,” Philip dropped his tone to avoid being overheard as he tried to hide his arousal. A weight settled into the back of Philip’s neck, the tendons tightening and a tingle of awareness at the base of his skull. An ache started behind his left eye and energy built quickly in his fingertips. “I take it you’re all moved into your new room?”

“And having a good night sleep without worrying about someone joining me in the middle of the night.” Bruce had been more than happy to leave the Mayor’s house for a place in the Manor. Philip had worried Garrett’s meddling was going to make Bruce leave before they’d managed to get him to agree to a permanent relocation. Sending a daughter to Bruce’s bed was something Garrett might try.

Philip rolled his shoulders, a sense of unease pressing down on his chest. “Garrett pushing daughter one or two? Not three? She’s only fifteen!”

“He’s got plans for the eldest two – a McCarter nephew and a Frasier cousin.” Bruce shook his head. “Marybeth is sweet and amiable, but she’s not my type.”

“Banner, enjoying the afternoon?” Clint’s voice was strained; Philip’s head ached, a flash of pain in his temple.

“Very much so.” Bruce’s reply was calmly and easy. “As I was telling Philip, I’m very happy to be in the manor. Seems I have no desire to end up forcibly tied to one of Garrett’s daughters. Not that I don’t appreciate a lovely young woman, but I’m married to my studies.”

The rigid band released and Philip felt a flood of relief as the pain receded. “I didn’t realize your order took vows.”

“Oh, I see,” Clint said at the same moment. They laughed at talking over each other. “Not sleeping with one eye open anymore, eh?” He winked at the clerk before turning his attention to his husband. “Going to give me a token to wear, Phil?”

The thought of handing over a ribbon for Clint made Philip’s smile. “Sorry, I don’t have any fripperies to share.”

“You could mark me.” The whispered threaded into Philip’s ear, and he bit his lower lip to keep himself on an even keel. “Phil,” Clint said, drawing the name out and tugging with his voice until Philip’s hand moved of its own accord towards Clint’s arm.

He intended to give the muscle a quick squeeze, just the slightest touch; the flash of purple energy crackled and Philip jerked back, eyes wide as Clint flinched away. There, bright red like a brand, was the imprint of his hand on Clint’s skin. He couldn’t think, didn’t move during the time it took him to comprehend what he’d done, then he schooled his face with an impassive mask to hide behind as Clint ducked his shoulder, covered the area with his hand and turned away from prying eyes. A quick glance told Philip no one was looking their way from the crowd or the men in a tight group, waiting on Clint. Exactly what Bruce was thinking, Philip couldn’t tell without directly looking at the clerk.

“Clint,” Carol called. “You ready?”

There was nothing to do but brazen through it; with a look, they both agreed, and Clint slowly dropped his hand. The mark was fading as quickly as it came, just a shadow now. Philip breathed a silent sigh of relief as Clint stepped away. Thank the gods for small favors it wasn’t worse; Philip had been far too busy today to go to the workshop and bled away energy. Maybe Clint was right about Philip needing to practice just like he did with his swordplay.

“If there were ever any reason you might need help,” Bruce said quietly, almost drowned out by the roar from the makeshift viewing stands as Clint and the men entered the field. “You just have to ask. I’ve never told you my field of study, you realize.” Philip could only stare at those earnest brown eyes. “You’re a smart man. You, Clint, Carol, Natasha, Jessica, and me? All ending up here together? Surely you don’t believe that’s a coincidence?”

“No. No, I don’t.” The import of what Bruce was admitting hit Philip. “You’re more than you seem, Bruce Banner. Like me.”

“Not exactly, but in the same genus, you could say. I’m a scholar who got in over his head; there are powers that don’t take kindly to being tampered with.” The darkness was back in Bruce’s eyes. “That’s why marriage isn’t on the table for me. I can’t imagine a woman who would be able to deal with my … differences. But I can help you get this under control. We’re going to need you, I fear. Sooner rather than later.”

The exhibition started and there was no more time for revelations; Philip was rocked enough by what he’d just learned that he barely noticed the three men run through their paces, shooting as they rolled and rode, eliciting gasps and applause from the crowd. But he knew the second Clint took the field on his sorrel rouncey, the two of them moving in unison like they were connected in both mind and body. They made every motion effortless, quick turns, fast gallops, slow trots, arrows hitting the targets Clint never bothered to center in his sights. Then Clint stood up, balanced on the swaying tightrope of Lucky’s back, aim never wavering, dismounting with a back flip, his knees tight to his chest, and firing the last two arrows from the ground. 

The noise from the crowd crested like a wave and Philip felt like he was drowning, caught between the sound washing over him and the energy that slammed out of his chest, making it hard to breath. The brief thought of Clint’s earlier promise about riding together was all it took to make Philip lose himself in the onslaught, power coursing down his arms into his clenched palms.

“Put your hands on your swords,” Bruce insisted.

The metal hilts were cool to his touch and he curled his fingers around them clinging to their comforting feel as he let the energy run down the fuller and pool at the tip.

“Think of fighting well, of quickness and sharpness. Center your mind on the feel of the sword in your hand, when the balance is perfect.”

That image anchored him; the swish of the blade through the air, the ring of metal on metal.  The power faded and let him weak in the knees, but the hilts were warm now under his fingers. A hand on his arm guided him to a wooden bench by the weapon display, and he sat down.

“The fatigue will pass especially after Clint gets here.” Bruce put some space between them. “First thing we need to do is find a focal point for you. I have some stones that might work if we can get Luke to embed them in the pommels. If we’re lucky, one will resonate with you and maybe even be able to store the energy.”

“You really do know about this.” Philip shouldn’t be surprised; why wouldn’t others notice the same clues he had?

“The right place at the right time. That’s how it always starts in the stories, as you well know.” Bruce carefully kept his hands to himself. “Here’s Clint now. Best if he’s the one to help you. You’re responsive to each other and I don’t want to make him any more jealous than he already is. Do assure him that I like women, though.”

“Phil?” Clint paused in front of them, unsure of what exactly to do.

“You were perfect,” Philip said, offering Clint his hand. Just the slide of palms together strengthened Philip, and he pulled up using Clint’s weight to aid him. The hand print on Clint’s arm flared briefly; Philip put his other palm over it, masking it with a casual touch. “I guess you can do anything on horseback. But I may need a demonstration later.”

“That I can do,” Clint answered, eyes lightening as Philip gained back his equilibrium. “That I will definitely do.”

* * *

 

Dax had set the three boys to cleaning out the old fire pits a week ago; they’d enjoyed it far too much, black sandy ash and dirt covering their faces and any exposed skin when they were done. Theodore’s blonde hair had dark streaks and Nathan discovered how easy it was to add a little water to make a sticky paste that clung to everything and painted walls. The howling had echoed as far as the practice fields as Annamarie forced them to scrub with hard bristle brushes in the cold water of the pond. Now, pigs were roasting in the Indian summer warmth that had invaded the holding, a last hurrah before the sting of winter winds blew down from the North. A sauce was thickening in the kitchen, the smell of cinnamon and nutmeg mixed with vinegar and rum, as Rachel pulled yeasty rolls from the stone arch of the oven. Philip didn’t intrude, even though his stomach rumbled as he stuck his head in the door, reminding him he’d only had time to eat a few bites of cheese since his very early breakfast. Too much to do; he could eat when supper was served. Then he’d be done for the day aside from a stroll down to hear the evening’s entertainment. The players had arrived, but their repertoire hadn’t been announced. Clint had asked for something fun and light, no tragedies, and Philip had requested some adventure and maybe romance. The Headsman had just smiled and said he had a perfect choice.

“Phil!” With a clatter, William came running through the door from the Main Hall, dodging between servants with platters, almost crashing into a young woman balancing a bucket filled with sweet potatoes, roasted in the coals, ready to eat. He was shouting, forgetting his manners in his haste. Wincing, Philip caught him by the scruff of his collar and brought him to a halt. “There’s a woman. She’s in armor and really tall and all scary muscles with a big sword. Talks funny. She was down at the field watching; now she’s here.”

“Slow down,” Philip cautioned. The boy was talking so fast, he was tripping over his words. “Now, what’s her name?”

“Lady Six or Shift or something like that, I think.” William’s eyes were wide. “She’s from Asgard.”

Gods. Lady Sif was here. Philip’s blood ran cold at what her presence meant. She was Prince Loki’s Head of Guard; if she had arrived, Loki would not be far behind. They’d been expecting the visit, and yet Philip wasn’t ready.

“William. Listen to me. This is very important. Go get Lord Barton; he’s still down on the field with Thane Danvers and Thane Drew. Tell him Lady Sif from Asgard is here. Got that?” When William just stood there, Philip gave him a push on his back to start him down the hallway. “Pages of noble households do not run willy nilly. But hurry.” The boy pelted off at a dead run despite the warning.

He wasted a moment for a deep breath and to straighten his jacket. Wishing he had time to change into more formal attire, Philip squared his shoulders, ready to face this new challenge.

“I’ll bring something warm to drink,” Annamarie said.

“You’re a little scary, you know?” Philip could think of nothing else to say.

“Hard to miss Billy tearing through the manor house,” she smiled as she shooed him away. “Go on and welcome our guest.”

She was waiting in the entry hall, completely out of place amid the bustle of the servants and townsfolk setting up for the evening’s festivities. They gave the woman a wide berth as she stood, hand on her broadsword, watching them come and go. Hair the color of midnight was plaited into a long braid that fell down her back, and she wore a silver breastplate over her chainmail hauberk, red leather flaps for a skirt, pauldrons covering her shoulders. Her traveling cloak was stained at the edges, the dark red hood pushed back. Stepping up to her, Philip realized she was taller than him; he had to tilt his head back to look into her amazing green eyes.

“Lady Sif, Shield-Maiden of Asgard, your reputation precedes you.” He inclined his head; although his status as a Lord meant he needn’t bow, the nod indicated his respect.

“Lord Coulson Barton,” she inclined her head in return. “Prince Loki is not far behind me; I thought to prepare you before we descended upon your home.”

Philip understood; she was here to check the lay of the land. Her primary responsibility was the Prince’s safety. As a student of the Asgardian court and history, Philip had heard remarkable stories about this woman’s fighting prowess. Rumor also linked Lady Sif to the famous Warriors Three, Prince Thor’s companions. If King Odin had sent Loki away as punishment, Sif’s presence meant that his father still worried about the Prince.

“I’m afraid we are a little short on space at the moment,” Philip held his arm out, ushering Sif into the Hall proper. “We have a few rooms here in the Manor, for the Prince and you, and your men are welcome in the new guard house but they’ll have to share.” Like magic, Annamarie appeared with mugs of hot cider, a cinnamon stick in each.  Warm rolls were piled in a basket alongside the drinks.

“Thank you,” Sif spoke directly to Annamarie. The normally unshakeable chatelaine ducked her head. Whether Sif’s beauty or graciousness had thrown her, Annamarie was at a loss for words as she retreated. “We appreciate your offer, but the rooms are unnecessary. The Prince travels with his own tents and prefers them when the weather permits. All we need is level ground; we are a small traveling party, just twelve.”

“There’s a fallow field beyond the practice grounds and near the creek that would suffice. Close to the manor and to town so you can enjoy the Faire.” Philip breathed a mental sigh of relief; the idea of Loki just down the corridor was discomforting.  He motioned to a seat and waited for her to settle before he sat down across from her. Taking a mug, she drained the whole thing in one long drink then took a roll.

“A harvest festival?” Sif’s smile was open and inviting, nothing like Philip had expected from such an august member of the Asgardian court. From what he’d read, the nobility held to the old ways, formal language, and a faith in the divine right of the King to rule. “I do love this time of year! Your King asked us to accompany him to Lord Stark’s festival which I understand is very large and well-known, but we must make for home while the weather holds. The pass through the Mountains will not be open much longer. That is why we can only stay a few days.”

Better and better, Philip thought. A short visit would be more agreeable on his part. “I have never been through the pass, but I know it to be treacherous even on good days like this.”

“Indeed. Bandits used to be the danger, but now I hear of far different adversaries.” Her eyes glittered at the prospect. “I can only hope to run across a troll or a giant or some other creature of legends. It has been far too long since I had real sport.”

“I’m sure you can handle whatever comes your way, Milady,” Philip agreed. The Asgardians valued success in battle, courage and strength a requirement for the position Sif held. And yet she spoke of such monsters as if she expected them to be real. “Here you’ll find that our little celebration is much smaller than Lord Stark’s. The TriYork Festival is the largest of all; artisans from other countries, talented entertainers; Stark has only the best. But we can boast of excellent players from the Northern reaches and McKennitt is performing tomorrow night.”

“Oh, I prefer this kind of gathering, to be honest.” She smiled. “But I think you downplay the charms of your hold; I saw the end of the exhibition as I rode in. The caliber of the participants was exceptional.”

“Thank you,” Clint said as he stopped at the table; he was still in his working gear, sweaty hair clinging to his face. “Lady Sif. Be welcome.”

“Ah, Lord Barton. The tales about you are not exaggerated, I see.” She unfolded her long legs and stood to offer a return of Clint’s nod. Philip stood as well. “Although I admit to a slight disappointment that I can’t see the accuracy of your aim from the rigging of a ship.”

Clint blushed. “Ah, well those are stories and far from the truth, I’m afraid.”

“After watching you today, I have no doubt you are capable of the deeds,” she teased. “But I suppose that shooting flaming arrows in a snow storm while riding a dragon might be amplified a bit.”

“Dragon?” Philip couldn’t help but say. “I haven’t heard that one, I’m afraid.” Clint shot him a look, clearly unhappy with his contribution.

“ _Arrows of the Wind_ , it’s called. Very popular in the Asgardian court. Princess Mielikki’s personal favorite,” Sif offered, her praise serious.

“Ah, um,” Clint hesitated, unsure how to go on. Philip took pity on him.

“Would you like to freshen up after your time on the road? Tonight’s meal is informal and will begin in less than a half hour,” Philip said. “I should check on the progress in the kitchen.”

“Of course,” Sif agreed.

“I’ll show you to a guest room then.” Clint was relieved at the change of subject. “I’m headed that way.”

Philip watched them go, aware that Clint would soon learn of Loki’s arrival. First on Philip’s new to-do list was to find Natasha. She’d returned only yesterday with the search party from the Howling Vale; her friend Missouri had to be close to an object to sense it, so they planned for her to visit all the locations. How to deal with the information about the glowing eyed bandits and their goal was the issue. They’d only involved a handful of company members in the travelling parties, and they didn’t know exactly what they were looking for. Still, a stray word about the attack was bound to happen. He needed Natasha’s input, so he tracked her down near the stage being set on the field for the performance later.

“We’re about to have company I hear,” were the first words she said. Another scary woman, sometimes Natasha knew things before they happened. “I saw the Lady Sif ride in. She knows our strengths and weaknesses by now and will report them to Loki.”

“She seemed refreshingly open.” It was true; Philip hadn’t expected it. “But yes, she saw Clint, Carol and Jessica. You and I remain the unknowns.”

“Within an hour, she’ll know of the bandits and the search. Best to acknowledge enough to make it seem like we’ve been honest.” Natasha was very good at misdirection; Philip was about to suggest the very same strategy.

“We say that we found a map and are checking the areas out for more bandits. Close enough to the truth.” Philip eyed the player’s wagon with its open side, props and costumes spilling out. “We can keep him busy with the Faire. I’d say turn Garrett loose on Loki, but that seems too mean.”

“And dangerous. I forget you haven’t met Loki yet. He’s a master manipulator; Garrett would be an appetizer for him. Best keep your wits about you – Clint too – and be wary of what you say,” Natasha counseled. “He won’t buy that you two are a love match, but I think we can sell him on mutual benefit.”

“Agreed.” Philip walked back towards the manor, Natasha at his side. Clearly, Philip’s dowry had been an important variable; all of the construction alone proved that. “There’s no hiding the state of the Hold from him. Best use it to our advantage. Fortunately, he’s not staying in the manor; he has his own tents.”

“You know he’ll try to seduce one or both of you. That’s how he operates, divide and conquer, and he’s not a gracious loser from what I’ve heard. Clint stole you from him …” Natasha wiggled her eyebrows at him when Philip huffed at the turn of phrase, “… that’s how he’ll see it, so I think he’ll try your resolve. If that doesn’t work, he’ll go for jealousy, and there he’ll have more success.”

“Truly? I don’t think his play will work; there’s no reason for either of us to be jealous.” Philip dismissed the idea. After all, as Natasha had already pointed out, love was not part of the equation. His marriage was a beneficial arrangement with the added bonus of physical attraction.

“You obviously didn’t see how Clint looked at Bruce earlier today. Green eyed and angry, that’s what he was.”

Bruce had mentioned something about not touching, but Philip hadn’t really paid attention to it. “You’re mistaken.”

A slight bow of her head, Natasha yielded the point, not giving in, but simply dropping the subject. “I will help if I can and direct Loki’s attention elsewhere. Be careful of anything that smells of magic while he’s here. Even the slightest whiff and he’ll take advantage of it.”

“Magic?” That sounded weak even to Philip’s own ears. He could protest more or just accept that his secret was no longer only his. “I don’t think that’s an issue.”

“I’m right in saying Loki isn’t even subtle about his own talents and finding that he missed marrying the first human mage in generations will not sit well with him.”

Philip would have gaped at her, but they had reached the impromptu serving area, tables arranged near the now empty fire pits, platters weighed down with delicious pork pulled from the bone. His eye found Lady Sif talking with Carol, an animated conversation with hand gestures and laughter. Clint was speaking to the Mayor, his carefully schooled face giving away none of his emotions. Bruce, standing just outside the gathered group, moved their way.

“I’ll go rescue Clint,” Natasha announced before she headed that direction.

“Does everyone know?” Philip mused aloud to Bruce.

“Well, Clint, of course. Natasha, Carol, and Jessica. Bonds forged during troubled times make for tight friendships. I imagine Natasha already had suspicions before you arrived. She knows everything. It’s almost spooky.” Bruce grinned and shrugged at Philip’s slack-jawed face. “I knew the moment we met; pretty surprised to find you standing in the clearing, knocking on my door. That’s why I agreed to come here. Oh, Annamarie suspects. You don’t clean up after people and not learn their secrets.”

“We could just make a public announcement. That might be easier.” Old hurts flared and Philip’s fears came back full force. The more people aware of him, the more he worried.

“They want to protect Clint. That’s their job,” Bruce reminded him. Philip did understand that. Just a short while ago, that had been his role for Lord Fury. How quickly Philip had changed his thinking. Now he wished he was in the tight circle of Clint’s family, not the interloper they were afraid of.

“Yes. And they do it well.” He hid the little ache of disappointment. There was work to do. There was always work. “I’d best see if Dax is ready; hungry people don’t like to wait long.”  Feeling Bruce’s eyes on him as he walked away, Philip didn’t have the luxury of letting himself fall into those old doubts. Lady Sif had said Loki would be arriving within the hour, and Philip still had to speak to Annamarie about all the arrangements. When Dax gave the go ahead, Philip tapped Clint’s shoulder.

Standing up on a bench, Clint called to the growing crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen! We welcome you to the Frasierton Fall Faire! Eat, drink, dance, and spend your money at the stalls in the marketplace. May the weather hold both now and for your journeys home. As Lord of the Manor, I declare this Faire begun!”

Applause greeted the pronouncement along with a surge of people towards the food tables. Holding out his hand to Philip, Clint jumped down; when Philip would have pulled away, Clint tightened his grip, refusing to let go.

“Oh no, you don’t. United front, remember?” Clint said.

The touch grounded Philip, tugging him back from his thoughts and into the present. Clint was right; so many of the Holders were here – Frasier, Ferguson, Huskey, Thomas, and a whole passel of  McCarters – and this was the first time Philip had met most of them. The lovely temperatures allowed them to set up trestles and benches outside under the spreading shade of an old oak, its gnarled limbs creating seats of their own with dips and curves. The leaves were a brilliant orange now, some already littering the ground, creating a carpet of color for the festival clothing they were all wearing. Philip had talked Clint into wearing his new vest, the black leather fitted to his form in ways that gave Philip all sorts of ideas, dark sleeves of his black shirt highlighting the purple trim. In return, Philip had worn his new jacket and they looked a fine matching pair. The Frasiers wore their plaids as sashes over their vests, [brilliant red with black stripes](http://clothing.mysterious-scotland.com/tartan/FraserOfLovat.jpg). Not to be outdone, the Huskeys had donned their kilts, bare knees and hairy legs revealed as they sat down with plates heaping with food. The McCarters had gone the opposite direction and came in their homespun shirts and worn leather fighting vests, a statement of how comfortable they were with their position.  Laird Richard had weaseled a barrel of ale out of Annamarie early – she was a cousin after all – and the whole family was well on the way to being raucously drunk, even the lovely Melinda, who’d only gotten more radiant as she’d gained weight after each child. Giving her husband seven strapping sons and four strong girls built just like her made her a goddess in his eyes. She wore a dress made of the most vibrant ochre yellow Philip had ever seen, the fabric Sam had brought her from the Capital; it clashed horribly with the autumn leaves, accentuated the curves of her ample hips, and yet she glowed as her family danced attendance on her.  When she asked for the recipe for the mini-apple tarts, Clint laughed and sent for Rachel; within minutes, the two women’s heads were tilted close, whispering over full mugs.

He should have been enjoying it all, the tall tales exchanged, the wide smile on Dax’s face as person after person complimented him, the ease with which Clint moved among his people, and the way Lady Sif took it all in as she sat with Carol and Jessica, drinking and eating as much as the largest man at the table. Success after all the planning usually made Philip happy; a smoothly running household was a thing of beauty. And yet, he couldn’t forget who was drawing nearer with every moment, a sense of foreboding settling in his chest. After they took their own places – no head table here, a specific request of Clint’s – Philip’s mind started to wander as he ate his jerked pork, following Clint’s lead and splitting the roll to pile the spicy, fragrant meat inside. Even the cinnamon butter on the sweet potato couldn’t keep his attention or his own tart which matched perfectly to the rest of the meal. Instead, he pictured the road leading up to town, remembering the way it curved around a hillock, Barton Manor coming into view, framed by the mountains as a backdrop. Before that was a woody section which would be painted with the colors of the season; he imagined the horses’ hooves tamping down the fallen leaves. In the denser parts, the trees formed a canopy over the riders, all eleven of them on their steeds, pace steadily advancing, bringing them closer. At the head was a solid black palfrey, delicate legs of a purebred, her neck arched, head held high, speed promised in her frame, agility written on her shining coat. Astride was a man used to commanding attention, royalty in his frame, his shoulders back, spine straight, black hair slick and gleaming in the stray beams of the setting autumn sun. Blue eyes like the ice of a Northern ridge, brilliant, intense, looking right into Philip’s heart, cutting into his very soul …

“Philip?”

Warm hand on his thigh, Clint’s voice yanked him back. Philip dragged in a breath, realized he was shaking, goose bumps running up his arms. Someone was pressing a hot mug into his hand; he held it under his nose, a curl of condensed mist chasing away the chill.

“Sorry. I must have drifted off for a moment. It’s been a busy few weeks,” he said as soon as he could make his mouth work. The thread of hot cider ran down his throat as he sipped.

“You need to get more rest,” Laird James Frasier declared from across the table. “Can’t have you falling asleep over food this good, boy! Clint, you need to take better care of your husband.” He called everyone ‘boy’; the man was approaching sixty and quite a character in his own right.

“From what I hear that’s not a problem!” Richard McCarter shouted from his table. A roar greeted his words, then thumping of the tables, mugs smashing down on the wood in a beat that grew louder and louder.

“Kiss him!” Not to be outdone, Leo Huskey joined in. “We missed the wedding feast. Let’s have one now!” The others shouted their approval and Philip noticed that Sif was pounding her mug with the others.

“Well?” Clint asked him. Philip nodded in agreement, leaning in, expecting a light peck on the lips to placate the crowd.

“Melinda can’t see ya’!” McCarter shouted. “Stand up!”

“Table! On the table!” They all took up the chant.

There was nothing to do but stand up; Clint stepped upon the bench as people cleared a spot on the table. Then he offered his hand in a broad gesture that amused Philip; like actors on stage, Philip climbed up and bowed to Clint to cover the awkwardness. Thank the gods, he thought, that Clint took the lead; capturing Philip’s hand in his, Clint wrapped the other one around the side of Philip’s head, resting his thumb along Philip’s jaw and burying his fingers into Philip’s hair. That self-satisfied smirk was on Clint’s face, the one he made when he was about to play with Philip’s equilibrium;  Philip only had a moment to wonder what Clint was up to before their lips came together in a kiss that was definitely not for public consumption. The tip of Clint’s tongue slipped inside and ran the curve of Phil’s teeth before stroking further inside.  Holding him still with his hand, Clint explored every crevice of his mouth, demanding Philip reply in kind despite the howls of approval that surrounded them.

Growing warm, then hotter, then burning along the skin, Clint’s fingers gripped Philip as power flowed between them. Not a flash like before, this was surer, a sharing that was welcome on both sides. Philip could feel the branding happening, knew Clint was marking him in front of everyone. Rather than letting the energy go unchecked, Philip turned it back into Clint, wrapping his free hand around the exact spot he’d burned Clint earlier. He remembered and let the images play behind his closed eyelids – the cocky grin, the way Clint looked on horseback, the flex of muscle when he drew his bow, the sprawl of his limbs as he lay sated in bed – and heard the words in his mind, “unchanging to the very end of time.” And somewhere he heard an answering echo: “mine.”

The people’s reaction was deafening when they broke apart, but neither of them turned away, eyes mirroring this new development. Hands helped them down, and they were caught up in the current of well-wishers, a series of handshakes and back slaps as more ale was poured for everyone, unable to even speak to each other before they were separated in the crowd. Philip found himself in front of the Lady Sif who quirked her lips up in an amused smile and gave him a bear sized hug.

“You have no idea,” she said, smile widening. “And he doesn’t know. Oh, this is going to be so much fun.”

“What do you mean?” Philip managed to ask as other hands tried to pull him away.

“Lord Philip! Lord Philip!” Theodore was on one side, William on the other, yanking on his coat.  They were dressed in their new livery and William already had sauce on the collar of his shirt.

“Gentlemen.” The one word was enough to get them to stop jumping up and down and shouting. “That’s better. Now, go ahead.”

“He’s here, he’s here,” Theodore said.

“Lord … Prince Loki, milord. He’s arrived,” William said.

 

 


	9. Shadows of Doubt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki arrives and begins his manipulations. Some of Clint's insecurities come to a head and Philip's secret obsession with a certain hero of popular tales is unmasked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Using my literary background here for the players ... that's two stories from the Canterbury Tales for those who don't recognize them: The Miller's Tale and The Knight's Tale.
> 
> And, no, I haven't forgotten Bruce ....

Prince Loki appeared to be the court dilettante that Natasha had warned him about; he was dressed in leather armor tailored to look like dress finery, embroidered with gold thread and jeweled clasps that would be out-of-place on any field of battle Clint had ever known. And yet, the man was charming and quite interested in the Hold; from the moment his slim leather boot had touched the ground as he slid off his horse, he’d been nothing but gracious, apologizing for his unexpected arrival and expressing his thanks for the food and drink Philip had arranged for the Prince and his retinue. Now, sitting at a table under the oak tree, he was laughing at something Richard McCarter was saying.

Maybe it was the strange events of the day that had Clint feeling so off kilter. If he stopped to think about it, he could feel the mark Philip had made tingle on his arm, and he remembered clearly the sensation of his own hand burning into Philip’s skin. All of that on top of the Faire, the exhibition, Lady Sif, and the spike of pure hatred Clint had felt when he thought Bruce was propositioning Philip. Clint liked the clerk; he had a wry sense of humor and was taking the weirdness in stride. But, for a moment, Clint had the impulse to punch the man in the face. Once he’d realized Bruce was only talking about Garrett’s attempts at matchmaking, Clint had swung right back into the state of semi-arousal he was always in when Philip was nearby.

His eyes unerringly found his husband talking to Dax, probably praising him for the food. Philip was good at that, knowing when to speak a good word and when someone needed a kick to get going. Look at Rachel. A month ago, she was a camp follower with the goal of surviving life long enough to maybe marry one of the men. Now, she was seated next to a Laird’s wife as she told a noble of the Asgardian court her plans to perfect her pie crust and open her own shop. Melinda, it seemed, had agreed to help fund the endeavor and Sif, after finishing a third tart, suggested Rachel visit Asgard to teach her recipes to the royal chefs. Philip had pushed her to take a job in the manor, and now she was starting to believe she could do more. It didn’t escape Clint that Philip was doing the same thing to him; getting Clint to take part in today’s exhibition hadn’t been a subtle thing. Still, Clint recognized the ways Philip was making him take responsibility and building him up to believe he could actually do this, be the Lord of the Manor his father never was.

In the moments of doubt that assailed Clint, usually in the middle of the night or during long, boring jobs like building walls, he wondered why he’d trusted Philip so quickly and easily. The man had slotted into Clint’s life as if he’d been destined to be by Clint’s side. Usually, Clint would question that, worry about scoundrels and con men who wanted his money, his power or his life. He’d known Natasha for six months before he let himself go to sleep in her presence; Carol was almost a year, and Jessica had only agreed to become his thane after he almost got killed rescuing her. But Philip had become something of an obsession for Clint in the blink of an eye; he thought of things at the oddest times during the day, like the goofy smile Philip made when he was talking about an old story, the way Phil’s leather pants fit snugly across the curve of his ass, and the flash of sunlight off Philip’s swords as he fought. At night, Clint curled around the lean frame and didn’t dream of blood and battle. And when Clint was inside of Philip, he didn’t think of anything at all, pleasure and contentment overwhelming all his doubts and fears. Sex with Philip was good. Very good.

“I’d ask if you were wool-gathering, Lord Barton, but I suspect you are contemplating something earthier,” Loki said. His melodic voice, rich and deep, drew Clint back from his ruminations. With an arched eyebrow, Loki followed Clint’s line of sight straight to Philip.

“The lad’s still a newlywed.” Richard McCarter’s voice boomed across the space. Philip turned and his gaze landed on Clint. “He’s distracted as any new husband should be. Haven’t even made it to the new moon yet!”

“’Tis good to see an arranged marriage working well,” the Prince said. “Although I find myself regretting the lateness of my suit. Had I known Lord Philip, I might have put up more of a fight for him.”

“Begging your pardon, your Highness,” Melinda McCarter said in her quieter voice. “But we’re very glad we have both of our Lords. After the attack two years ago, we were in an awful state and couldn’t very well help ourselves.”

“Now, woman, you know we’d have been able to get things pulled back together,” her husband protested. “McCarters take care of themselves.”

“Aye, love, I know you would. But this was the whole Holding not just our part. And you agreed with the others to ask Lord Fury for protection and aid, so don’t be puffing up your chest at me.” Melinda may have smiled at Loki, but she sent a glare full of sharp daggers at Richard. “Without Clint’s return and Philip’s arrival, I know we wouldn’t be sitting here, eating such good food and celebrating. Fury did right by us.”

“As he should,” Loki agreed. “That is the way of marriages; make the best alliances and strengthen the land.”

“That may be true, but it does my heart good to see Clint all besotted like he is. About time you had a good break, my boy,” Melinda added, aiming her last comment at him. Clint knew he was blushing right up to the roots of his hair. Besotted? Where did she get that idea?

“I thank you for the kind words.” Clint wanted to object, but thought better of it. What would it hurt for Loki to think there was more between him and Philip? “But you are the reason this Hold is thriving. The people here are strong-willed.”

“See?” Richard laughed. “You’re definitely a Frasier, boy. Far too nice for your own good. McCarters, on the other hand, know when to speak our mind and take credit for the good we’ve done.”

“I’d say Lord Barton has the right of it,” Loki laughed, his blue eyes filled with humor. “Were she free, Lady McCarter would make a wonderful Princess of Asgard. My mother would adore you.”

The Laird of the clan McCarter sputtered and his face grew red.

“Now that is the best compliment anyone’s given me in ages!” Melinda overrode whatever her husband was about to say. “You could learn from the Prince, dear.” She stood, brushed the wrinkles from her dress, and held her hand out to Richard. “Time for the play. You know I want a good seat.”

“Interesting Holders you have, Lord Barton,” Loki said after they had left. “They seem very loyal.”

For a moment, it was just Clint and Loki, and Clint felt the oddest discomfort, like a cold breeze on the back of his neck. “The McCarters have been on this land as long as my family.”

“Yes, history is an excellent way to judge a person, is it not?” Loki sipped his ale. “Take Lady Sif. I’ve known her since we were both children. Even when she’s angry with me, I know I can trust her to watch my back.”

“She is a formidable woman,” Clint agreed. He wasn’t good at word play or parsing phrases; he needed Natasha for that, but she’d been absent since Loki had ridden up the road.

“So, too, are your Thanes, I hear. One of the oddities of the Midlands to us is the reliance upon outdated notions like the frailty of women when they are so obviously the stronger sex.” Loki’s eyes found Sif where she sat with Carol and Jessica. “And yet your people accept your choice of husband without comment.”

“It doesn’t make sense, I give you that,” Clint acknowledged. “But that’s human nature. We hold contradictory ideas.” That summed up how Clint felt about Philip, he realized. He wanted him desperately but still didn’t know him.

“I assume you wish to view the evening’s entertainment,” Sif interrupted, speaking to Loki. Carol and Jessica were standing with her. “It appears they are waiting on us to begin.”

 “Thane Danvers, would you be so kind?” Loki stood and held out his arm. Clint hid his surprise, half expecting Loki to ask him. Only because he was looking directly at her did he notice the way Sif’s face changed briefly, emotion there and then gone. He recognized that look; he’d directed his own jealous glare at Philip earlier today. Loki winked at Clint; gods, but the man knew and was playing with her. 

“I’d be honored.” Carol slipped her arm through Loki’s. She had on her battle face, the gaze that had scared any number of men off the field before the fight had begun, so the smile she plastered on didn’t reach her eyes. Pre-disposed to dislike Loki, Carol was using her head of the guard status as a reason to be wary of him.

“Please tell Philip that I hope to have time to speak to him tomorrow. I would convey my congratulations … assuming he is free, of course.” Loki tilted his head in Philip’s direction and Clint’s eyes flicked that way.

Standing in the growing shadows of the oak, half-hidden from view, Philip was leaning on the branch, listening with rapt attention.  Bruce’s hand was on Philip’s forearm, his brown hair falling across his face as he finished speaking. Philip laughed, amusement sparkling in his eyes. Like a knife’s plunge, Clint felt the stab of jealousy at the base of his throat, his stomach turning over. The note he heard was not just a minor key, but a discordant jangle that set his teeth on edge.  From the corner of his eye, he caught Loki’s stare, poised and ready to pounce on any response. But Clint was a master at masking his feelings when he wanted to be. A skill born of years of practice, hiding behind a staid face was a necessity Clint had learned at an early age. If he didn’t cry or beg, his father lost interest sooner, moving on to someone who would be suitably cowed by his belligerent threats. Hope was just as bad as fear; kind words and faint praise from his father was only meant to make the fall worse. The more Clint believed the soft voice, the worse the harsh hand would fall. So he’d developed a mask that revealed nothing, and it had served him well in his mercenary years. Opponents couldn’t guess his plans, friends didn’t know his hurts, and no one saw his vulnerability but the few he trusted.

“I will make certain you speak with Philip tomorrow. He’ll wish to make time for you, I’m sure.” His tone made Carol stand straighter, the fighter in her recognizing the threat that lurked in the air. Jessica, standing behind Loki and out of his sight, cut her gaze to Philip and back to Clint with an almost imperceptible nod. “Carol, if you would, tell the performers that Philip and I will there shortly.”

“Of course,” Carol agreed. Loki’s eye’s narrowed ever so slightly, stymied by Clint’s implacable outward calm. “Shall we, your Highness?”

The Prince had little choice but to go with her; the first salvo had not achieved the desired outcome, and Clint knew there would be another more subtle feint. Shoving down the desire to curl his hands into fists and slam one into Bruce’s face, Clint waited until Loki was out of earshot, disappearing down the slope of the hill.

“He wants a reaction, you understand.” Sif’s words startled him. “It’s his way. He dissects everything until he sees how it works.  Have care; he’ll lay your secrets bare before he leaves.”

“You would warn me, Milady?” Clint wasn’t sure of her motives; she was of Asgard and a defender of the Prince.

“Consider this advice, Lord Barton. Loki will recognize what you have, whether you do or not. When Lord Philip was an abstraction, a potential mate in name only, the Prince was interested only for what the marriage could bring. Now that he has met you both?” Sif’s question was almost wistful. “He’ll want to know how he can have it too”

“If he’s after Philip, he’ll have a fight on his hands.” What Clint had felt when he’d seen Bruce and Philip together paled in comparison to the fire that flared at her suggestion. Loki would not sway Philip away from Clint. “Prince or no, he can’t have him.”

“Ah, and there’s the rub. Anyone who spends the least amount of time around you will know that truth. Even I am jealous.” She placed a hand on Clint’s shoulder, carefully telegraphing her move as she did. “Do not let anything admit impediments to your bond.”

With that, she left Clint alone, his mind whirling with the details of the conversation, and his body tense with the fast shift of emotions he was feeling.  She hadn’t said outright that Loki was going to take Philip; she’d said he would want to know how he could have someone like Philip too. Could she mean the Prince would be jealous as well?  Or was she hinting at the magic? That scared Clint the most; what if the Asgardians knew. What would they do?

“Clint? What did Sif say?” Philip’s hand radiated warmth from its touch. Standing just behind Philip, Bruce took a step back as he made eye contact with Clint; the melody in Clint’s head was still slightly off, wrong notes falling among the stronger chords.

“Loki tried to make me jealous, just like Natasha predicted.” The words were difficult to get out, but once they were spoken aloud, Clint was relieved. The chords resolved, drifting back into the comfortingly familiar song he connected with Phil.

“If I’m causing any difficulties, I’ll gladly return to my own studies,” Bruce offered. His shoulders hunched, and he tried to make himself smaller.

“No,” Philip insisted. “Clint, we need Bruce. That’s what we’ve been talking about; he can help me learn to control this … power.”

“Oh.” Clint saw the scenes with a different eye – the way the two men shared a love of learning, the amount of knowledge they’d read about magic, even Bruce with Philip earlier after the exhibition, guiding him to a seat and waiting on Clint. “Oh.”

“I might be able to help you as well, at least insofar as the two of you working together. I have some ideas, if I can find the right references again, that can stabilize the connection.” When he spoke this time, Bruce stood up straight, more confident in himself. “Like now, you’re probably feeling something off, an ache or itch or upset. Out of sync for a lack of a better word.”

“Like the hairs on the back of head are standing out,” Philip said, surprising Clint with how open he was being.

Another moment of decision, Clint realized. Did he trust Bruce? Loki had been right about that; trust was something earned over a long history together. He barely knew Philip much less this clerk. And yet … “A wrong note, the chords all jangled up.”

“Music? You hear music?” Bruce’s eyes widened. “That’s very rare. I can only think of one example in all the legends. What was his name? It will come to me, give me a moment.”

“Bruce, the players are waiting,” Philip gently reminded.

“Yes, of course. My apologies.” Bruce pulled himself back to the moment. “Touch helps, does it not? Like this.” He reached for Philip’s other hand and guided it to Clint’s hand.

For just a second, their three hands were in contact. Music exploded into Clint’s head, loud and strong, his and Philip’s song with a bass counter melody that expanded and supported the main theme. Philip gasped, the charge of his magic flowing up Clint’s arm and into his chest, purple sparks jumping between their fingers to mix with the green streaks that appeared on Bruce’s hand. Not the sickly green of their dreams, Bruce’s skin was the color of emeralds, bold and deep. With a startled exclamation, Bruce jerked away; his whole body shivering.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, head down, curled in on himself. “I didn’t predict this reaction.” He started to flee but Clint grabbed his arm; the flesh was shifting under Clint’s hand, muscles straining and tensing. With a quick twist, Bruce broke the hold.

“Are you ill? What do you need?” Philip asked. “Let us help you.”

“I need … time … I will … be well … in the … morning … just leave me be. I need to  … expend this energy. You understand.” He disappeared into the darkness of the oncoming evening, running away from the festivities.

“We should do something,” Clint said, starting after the clerk. They were the cause of his distress; their magics had somehow infected the other man.

“I think we should let him alone. He has much to tell us yet; earlier, I was reminded he prefers to live a solitary life. There must be a reason for it.” Philip counseled. Still, doing nothing didn’t sit well with Clint, even if it was the right thing. “We need to go before we raise suspicions.”

“Melinda will assume we’re busy with something more pleasant,” Clint told him. “The holders believe we are on our honeymoon.”

“That kiss didn’t do anything to disabuse them of the notion.” Philip’s face grew softer as he remembered.

“Indeed.” Clint started towards the field, absently tugging on Philip’s hand, keeping their fingers entwined. It was becoming a habit, this constant contact; the feel of skin on skin buoyed Clint’s mood.

“Maybe we should play along,” Philip suggested as they worked their way down the incline, staying on the trail to avoid stepping in a hole. The sun had gone down, all but a thin ribbon red quickly fading on the western horizon. Casting long shadows, the mountains hovered, a dark presence to the North. “Be angry with each other and give him the opening he’s looking for. Maybe he’ll reveal what he wants.”

“Natasha is better at that than I am.” Clint could see the point Philip was making. Much as he didn’t like the idea, it had merit. “But I think I’ve had enough practice today to make it work.”

When Philip’s hand slipped away, the music muted, and the evening seemed to cool. The torches lit circled the stage, flames lighting the benches and chairs in the first few rows. Two seats were left open for them, front and center. Townspeople and holders mixed together, families with their children on the ground and some budding couples towards the back where brushes of fingers could go unnoticed. Carol and Jessica were seated with Sif on Loki’s left; at the Prince’s right, Mayor Garrett was talking with animated gestures, pointing out various people as he talked. With an unspoken agreement, Clint turned his back on Philip and made his way towards his seat, not waiting to see if Philip followed. Loki’s eyes tracked them as they moved, cataloguing the way Clint shuttered his face and smiled for everyone but Philip. Carol frowned and nudged Jessica; further back in the audience, Clint saw Natasha raise her eyebrow. He coughed once, just cleared his throat with his hand over his mouth, and she went back to her conversation, message received.  A few more discrete coughs, and Carol and Jessica understood as well.

Holding his body tense, Clint took his place, Philip sitting down next to him. When he got angry, Clint didn’t get loud or abusive; he’d seen the effects of losing control, flying fists and hastily hidden bruises. No, Clint grew distant, settling into a stillness that could be unnerving. He went there now, speaking to the Troop, nodding to Loki as he gave the go ahead to begin while ignoring Philip completely. It was easy enough once the Players began their first offering, a light-hearted comedy about an elderly carpenter, his voluptuous younger wife, and the lusty student renter in their home. A perfect choice to go with the full stomachs and casks of ale that had been consumed; as the short tale wound to its hilarious conclusion with red hot pokers, bare asses, and screams of “Fire!”, Clint wanted to relax and laugh along with everyone else, but he had to work to not lean into Philip’s warmth and enjoy this, the celebration of a harvest that was more than bountiful. The whole Hold was coming back to life despite the push of winter coming on; the roar of mirth that followed the player dressed as the old husband was chased off the stage spoke volumes about the people’s morale.

A second short play followed the first, a romance of two knights vying for a beautiful maiden’s love; Clint found it a little more tedious, never one for the professions of undying affection even when the young woman playing Emily camped it up, tittering behind her fan at the over-the-top deeds of strength presented to her. The audience found it highly entertaining; Clint saw Leo Huskey clapping enthusiastically as the scene ended.

“And for the main attraction, by special request, we present to you a tale rife with adventure, intrigue, romance, and action galore! Sword fights and love! Villains and heroes! Damsels in distress! Ladies and gentlemen, sit back and prepare for the excitement that is _The Archer and the Pirate_!”

Philip stiffened and sucked in a quick breath; the magic stirred, and Clint felt it jump between them, energy arcing from their hands where they rested close to each other. He’d forgotten Lady Sif’s conversation earlier about those damnable stories and how Philip had been aware of them. His husband knew, had probably known before the marriage.  That was why Fury agreed to the arrangement -- to get the Archer and the Widow and the Captain and the Spider. He didn’t have to fake his discomfort as he began to wonder if Philip was drawn to him, Clint Barton, or to the character of those exaggerations?

“It wasn’t me,” Philip whispered; the lightest brush of fingers against Clint’s knuckles set off a wave of music that was so loud Clint was sure others must have heard it. He resisted the urge to look at Philip, staring at the stage as an actor swung down from the top of the wagon, tight black pants and billowy white shirt half-unlaced. An impractical costume for an archer, some logical part of Clint’s brain noted, the material sure to get caught in the string. Yet, from the appreciative sounds from the ladies, it was quite affective.

“You knew.” Clint was well-versed in hiding his mouth when he spoke; his lip-reading skills had gotten a lot of practice when he’d been deafened for a short while by a canon that exploded too early. On stage, swords clashed in a carefully choreographed dance, clicking almost in rhythm with the tune circling under his skin. Red scarves served as blood when the hero slashed the first of what would be many and varied foes.

“This is my favorite.” Philip shifted his body and bumped his knee into Clint’s leg. It took a second for Clint to remember Philip’s fantasy about a captured pirate and a navy captain? In the story, it was the Archer in chains on a pirate ship, but Clint could see the parallels. That should annoy him; he hated the reputation and all the overwrought emotion that went along with being turned into a legend by bards. But his reaction was the opposite. He remembered Phil’s skin under his fingers and the way Phil clenched around him, and his cock stirred at the very idea Philip had been thinking of him for years. Torn between doubt and desire, Clint tried to let the play distract him, but Philip was too close for Clint to clear his mind. Wanting to touch, Clint gripped the edge of the bench to give his fingers something to do. 

When the scene arrived, the Archer with fake manacles on his wrists and chained to a pole, the vibrations from Philip grew in intensity and echoed through Clint. The pirate captain was played with panache by a rather tall actor with a shock of dark hair tied with a colorful swath of silk; he spouted the far too-dramatic speech with an island accent close enough to be real. Every time Clint heard this part, he always wanted to laugh; in the true story, the captain turned out to be a poker player who took Clint for a hefty amount of silver.  But now he watched through Philip’s eyes, and the dialogue was layered with innuendo, the usual threats sounding more like propositions. Suddenly warm despite the fall evening, Clint tried to contain the coil of energy that was tightening in his chest

Philip broke first; he turned his head, eyes dark shadows in the torchlight, and leaned forward a little to give the Prince a clear view. “I’m sorry,” he murmured then he moved his hand over Clint’s.  Lust, rueful regret, and a bit of embarrassment all clashed together. Clint should pull away, continue the ruse, but breaking the chord that was ringing in his head was harder than he thought. He wanted to fall into that easy comfort. Instead, he settled for a curt nod and a hand squeeze.

“Son-of-a bitch gets the best lines,” Clint mock complained as the pirate swirled his long coat with a flourish onstage. From the corner of his eye, he could see Loki chatting with Garrett, his attention flitting from the stage to the Mayor and then over to Clint. He tilted his head in the smallest of nod towards Clint.

Three more times, Philip’s interest spiked; Clint filed away the specific scenes for later. Grounding through shifting touches – knees, hands, even elbows at one point – they kept the energy from discharging as Philip reacted to the play. Then the players were taking their bows to thunderous applause, and the McCarters called for more ale, ready to drink the night away. Clint wanted to escape the center of attention for the quiet of the Manor, but Mayor Garrett waylaid him before he got more than a few steps from his seat. Philip had gone a different direction; Clint saw him duck away, joining Melinda and Rachel in the group headed back to the barrels. At least one of them had managed to avoid an extended interview.

“Clint! What a delightful evening. Philip stood our town in the highest regard.” The Mayor went to loop his arm through Clint’s, but Clint stepped to the side, hiding his move as a turn towards Loki and Sif who were approaching. “Come. Let’s have an ale together to celebrate the return of prosperity.”

“You’re right. Lord Philip has done an excellent job,” Clint agreed. He was about to launch into an excuse, claiming to be tired, but Loki beat him to it.

“Actually, I was hoping to impose upon Lord Barton further, if he’ll let me. I find I am very tired from my journey and quite full from the exceptional dinner; would you escort us back to our tents? We brought the messenger pouch with us as we came. You probably wish to have it.” Loki held out his elbow and Clint could find no way to turn down the request without dishonoring the Prince in front of the gathered people.

“Of course, your Highness.” Clint looped his arm around Loki’s loosely and gestured with his hand. “I would be delighted.”

The Mayor looked crestfallen, but only for a moment. “Sleep well, Prince. Tomorrow will be a fine day.”

Leading Loki away, Clint moved them out of the circle of bright light and into the shadows of the surrounding land. The location of the tents was not far, but enough of a journey for a conversation, one Clint was determined not to start. Let the Prince make the first move.

“I admit to not being entirely truthful,” Loki began. Clint tilted his head and looked up at the taller man. “I am not all that tired, but I wished a word with you in relative private. Your good Mayor is certainly a talker.”

“Yes, that about sums Garrett up,” Clint cautiously agreed.

“I must apologize if I caused any trouble earlier,” Loki said. “With you and Philip. Things seemed tense.”

“’Tis nothing, truly.” Clint brushed off Loki’s concern. “As you know, ours is a new marriage. We are still learning each other’s ways. Just a misunderstanding.”

“Ah, good!” Loki seemed truly glad. “There seems to be such a palpable affinity between you that is seldom seen in these days.” Clint didn’t have an answer for that, so he kept silent, watching the ground as he walked. He doubted Loki was finished. “In fact, I can’t remember the last time I saw such compatibility in a marriage. Certainly not my parents whose arguments shake the very foundations of the castle. My father is very good at issuing orders that my Mother refuses to obey. Sif, do you know of any? You are much more attuned to happiness than I am.”

“I know not what you would consider a happy marriage. The King and Queen are powerful in their own rights and have many children. That could be considered compatible,” was Sif’s diplomatic answer. The practiced ease with which she spoke told Clint this was not the first time the two had engaged in this type of verbal sparring.

“Ah, but you do so love a good romance. Like the play tonight with the two gallant knights,” Loki teased. For the first time, Clint saw a softening in the Prince’s face as his eyes found Sif in the darkness. “Or even better yet, two warriors who fall in love as they perform great feats of strength and cunning, that one about the woman … what is her name … oh, yes, Britomart.”

“You know I do. But those are fiction, my Prince. Unions in real life are seldom as dramatic or simple.”

“And you, Clint … may I call you Clint? … surely you know how unusual you are? The Archer and the Steward brought together by the vagaries of fate? Such a tale that would make!” Loki said. Clint wasn’t sure if he was teasing or making a subtle stab at them; most likely, his purpose was both.

“A tale of repairing roofs and small Harvest festivals? Hardly exciting enough to keep anyone awake.” Clint intentionally didn’t mention the use of that silly name.

They came to a stop in front of a large silk tent, green and gold; another tent just behind was almost as large, then three mid-sized and two small ones made up the rest of the encampment. A young man stepped through the flap and bowed low. “Your bath is prepared, your Highness, as is yours Lady Sif.”

“Thank you, Bernerd,” Sif replied. “Please bring the pouch for Lord Barton.” The servant ducked in and was back in just moments, passing the mail over to Clint. 

“I think you do yourself a disservice,” Loki said. “A fight with mythical creatures and a bandit attack? All the story is lacking is a dark villain and a moment of great sacrifice.”

Loki slipped his arm free from Clint’s; instead he rested his hand on Clint’s bicep, just above the spot where Philip had marked him. A shiver of cold flowed from the spot, a chill that rose to Clint’s shoulders then his neck and then the base of his skull. Like someone dragging their fingers over the strings of a lute without any tune, a shower of notes clashed in Clint’s head, and he recognized it as magic, a different kind entirely from either his own or Philip’s. This magic wanted to change Clint, overtake his own melody and replace it with another.  If he tried, he could hear snatches of phrases, high and distant, like the wind whipping across the mountains and bringing a winter snow. Icy tendrils curled towards his hand only to be met by a flare of heat from Philip’s mark, burning away the cold.

“A couple of large animals and a few hungry thieves, that’s all it was.” It took all his focus to not react; he could feel the static between his fingertips, but he held it in. “Although I thank you for the compliment.”

“We shall agree to disagree on that point.” Loki removed his hand and immediately Clint’s body temperature rose. “Until the morning then. I hear I must try a pasty … I believe that’s what your Mayor called it.”

“Good night, your Highness.” Clint bowed his head for what he hoped was the last time tonight and waited until Loki had entered the tent. Sif smiled at him, but didn’t speak as she went to the second tent. Alone, Clint headed back to the manor, mulling over the evening’s events. So Loki knew of the two attacks, but he had not mentioned the search. That, Clint suspected, Loki was reserving for tomorrow’s interrogations. Death by a thousand tiny cuts, as an old friend of Clint’s used to say. Loki was going to keep working on both Clint and Philip to see how much they’d bleed. Clint wished he knew exactly why and what Loki hoped to accomplish, but that was beyond him in his tired state. Then there was Bruce. New revelations about him were unsettling. For such a small Hold, there were certainly more than a fair number of people who knew about and had some kind of magic.

Entering through the kitchen door, Clint found Dax in the quiet room, setting out ingredients for the morning, leaving pork to marinate in the ice box. The dark-skinned man scowled Clint’s way as he shut the wooden door and locked it closed, but he didn’t say a word.  Of course, others were there and had seen Clint’s behavior; in their eyes, Clint had been short with Philip and then walked off arm and arm with Loki.

“Good night,” Clint said, casual and easy.

“For some,” Dax replied.

He should have known there’d be more; waiting in the hallway, Annamarie had her hands on her hips, a fire in her eyes that was familiar to Clint. A talking to, that’s what she called the little speeches she’d given even as a young girl.

“Philip’s in the study, working. You need to hie your ass that way and apologize for being a simpleton.” She bit off each word, anger laced through them. “You can pretend to be upset all you like for the royal, but he doesn’t have some hidden agenda other than to make this place right for us.”

“Good Lord, woman, don’t you ever sleep? I take it back. You’re not scary. You’re psychic or something.” How did she know what he had just been thinking? A sneaking suspicion rose in his head … did everyone here have some sort of abilities?

“I just know you, Clint Barton. You think everyone’s out to hurt you or those you care about. I was there, remember? Not everyone is your father or your brother.” She didn’t waiver when she said it, walking right into the topic Clint refused to discuss with anyone else. “Philip is a good man; go make him feel like he’s part of this family and not some interloper you’re having sex with.”

“One day you’re going to go too far,” Clint warned her even though he knew she never really would. Experience gave her the right to speak of Clint’s past. She was right; she had been part of it all. “And, yes, I’m going to talk to him.”

“Clint.” She dropped her hands and her voice to a quiet murmur. “For what it’s worth, I trust Philip. Just like I trust you.”

He needed to hear that, especially from her. She’d tried to talk him out of leaving that night so long ago, had argued there were other options beside running away. When that didn’t work, she’d said she would come with him, a generous offer when Clint knew she loved her family and really didn’t want to go. Then her father had died in a riding accident and her mother during the fighting, and Clint wasn’t here to help her or to fight alongside those who defended the manor and town. For Annamarie to trust him meant he might just have a chance at truly being Lord Barton after all. Assuming he didn’t make too many mistakes.

The door to the study was cracked; Clint pushed it open to see Philip, head bent, hair falling over his eyes, flipping through an old book under the light of a single oil lamp. He was so intent on what he was reading that he didn’t notice Clint in the doorway. The stillness was almost complete, just the occasional pop from the slowly dying fire and the drag of vellum across Philip’s sleeve as he turned a page. Leaning against the jamb, Clint watched the play of light in the brown locks, the way Philip crinkled his brow when he became intent on a passage, and the motion of Phil’s fingers running absently along the edge of the paper. For once, there was no rush of music or rising energy; this was entirely different, a quiet calm where his brain settled, letting go of all the doubts and might haves, should haves, need tos that cluttered his thoughts. He just was, nothing more. Relaxing into the moment, he felt lighter, his chest not as tight, and his breathing slowed. Even the manor was hushed, a state usually reserved for the dark hours before dawn; everyone was either abed or out drinking. Time passed and Clint lost count of the seconds slipping away. Philip’s concentration was total; Clint could have spoken but that would break the spell.

Eyes narrowing, Philip bent further and ran his finger along a line of print for a second time; his lips moved slightly as if he was parsing every phrase. “That makes no sense,” he said to himself.

“Maybe a second opinion would help?” Clint spoke softly, but Philip didn’t startle as expected.

“I wondered when you were going to say something.” He looked up with a smile. “Come look at this. After what happened with Bruce today, I remembered a passage I’d read about symbiotic magic. This isn’t the one I was thinking of, but it’s still interesting, assuming I’m reading it right.”

Clint crossed to the desk and leaned over Philip’s shoulder, balancing his weight with his hand on the edge. He was close enough to exhale and stir Philip’s hair as he tried to decipher the spidery script on the page.

_… when than the dayes of tribulation came doune from the Northe, Lorde and Thane withedrew power to share amoungst themselves, weake to stronge, swyrd to wyrd. In tyme, alle were more, magyck makeing courage deepe within the walls of the darke cavern of sorrows._

“Sharing power?” Clint asked, only half-sure of the translation. “What does seward to weird mean? And the dark cave of sorrows?”

“That’s sword to word. The text is talking about sharing magical power to weak, strong, fighters, and scribes. I have no idea about the cave of sorrows. But the idea of drawing power from other magics? That’s a possible answer for what’s happening to us and with Bruce.” Philip flipped the page. “Too bad it’s just a fragment from an older story by a writer called Osswhed. I need to go through the books in the workshop and see if I can find more.”

“In the morning. We have a long day tomorrow and Loki specifically asked for some private conversation with you, so you’ll need your rest.” Clint reached out and took Philip’s hands in his. Just the mention of the Prince’s name stiffened Philip’s spine; they’d both forgotten for a while the trouble camped out literally on their doorstep.  Clearly, Philip wanted to ask what Clint had talked about with Loki, but he rose instead, bumping Clint back as he stepped around the desk.

“I could use some sleep. I need to be up before first light to help Annamarie. She’s making pasties for virtually the whole town, and Sam should be back late tonight, according to Luke. We should see what he learned on his swing north.” Neatly reshelving the book in its spot, Philip hesitated at the doorway. “Are you coming as well?”

It was an opening, enough for Clint to know that Philip wasn’t angry as much as he was worried. “Yes, I am. I have a feeling I’m going to need to be rested and ready tomorrow. Loki’s hard enough to fathom when I’m at my best.”

The trip to their room was uneventful; they saw no one else but William who was slumped in a chair outside the Main Hall, the unlucky page who had to stay available until everyone had retired for the night. A fresh pitcher of water, clean hand towels and two still warm mugs of hot chocolate waited on the table, courtesy of Annamarie.

“That woman has eyes in the back of her head,” Clint muttered.

“You do know she’s a psychic?” Philip asked. “Not mind reading, but more like pattern seeing. She can predict what people are going to do based upon their pattern of actions. Puts her in the right place at the right time to be of use. Very handy for a chatelaine. The Head of Chambers for the Queen has the same gift, although not as strongly as Annamarie.”

Stopping in place, Clint stared at Philip. “Is everyone around here some kind of mage?” His voice was plaintive, and he winced slightly at the sound.

“Gifts are not unusual, but it’s rare how many people here have very strong ones. Not magic, Clint, but abilities beyond the norm. Annamarie’s foresight isn’t unheard of just not to that extent.  Carol’s strength and leadership, Jessica’s empathy and flexibility, even Natasha’s subterfuge and reflexes – all of these are known in small doses but not the level and combinations they have. Only you and I can technically be considered magic users, and yours is very targeted, so much so as to seem a skill.” Philip explained; he picked up a mug and handed it to Clint before taking up his own.

“Targeted? A good pun.” Clint sipped the thick liquid; it was sweet and good and just the right temperature. A chill was still in his bones; he walked to the fireplace to warm up. “And you think perhaps this is because of … what did you call it? Not sharing, but something else.”

“Symbiotic. When two things are closely related and rely upon each other. Or in this case, more than two.” He shook his head. “But it’s unheard of in any text I’ve ever consulted. In all the legends, magic is individual. Lords had a mage in their retinue, but the other Thanes were skilled with strong gifts. Magic was unique and rare. Even in the stories of the Bonded, only one would be a mage, if either were at all. Most had only the magic of their union.”

“Unique. So magic can take any form? Perhaps cold like ice?” Clint asked.

“Yes. There was a famous sorcerer, the Trickster, whose spells felt like ….” Philip stared at him. “Loki? He touched you?”

“After I escorted him back, he put his hand on my arm and I felt the cold crawl all over. I think he tried something, but your mark burned hot and drove the ice back.” Clint shivered just thinking about it.

“My mark? My mark.” Philip’s eyes went wide, and he stumbled back a step before sitting down heavily in the chair. Leaving his mug on the table, he rubbed his temples with both hands. “My mark. Your mark. Gods in the heavens.”

“Phil,” Clint asked. “What?”

“The claiming. Using magic to lay a claim to someone or something. It’s in all the stories; sorcerers do it to make minions obey them. Mages can use it to offer protection. Like an oath or promise but often described like a branding.” Philip was agitated, closing his eyes then opening them again as he tried to explain. “If Loki tried to work some magic on you, and my mark repelled him, he’ll know it. Either he’ll think you’re a mage or that someone else is. Fuck.”

Clint had never heard Philip utter a curse word the whole time he’d known him; this was the first. “When you say claiming, you mean like saying I own you or that you’re mine, no one else’s?”

That loaded question fell into the room; Philip’s hand clenched on the arms of the chair and power flared to life. “You heard it. Tonight. When you kissed me. After all, you were laying claim in front of everyone.”

“At the practice field, you were the first. It’s what you wanted, to have the Archer all for you own. Is that why you came here?” As soon as he asked the question, Clint wanted to take it back, to bury the neediness that echoed in the phrase.

“No.” Philip answer came quickly then he paused, looked hard at Clint, and sighed. “Yes. Maybe. I don’t know. I swear that I knew nothing of this marriage until the day Nick came home and told me about Loki’s proposal and his counterplan to create an alliance with you.”

“Fury wanted this, so you wanted it.” A bald statement that Philip couldn’t deny.

“I did what my Lord commanded, yes. And he told me he suspected who you are.” Philip rose from the chair. “But wanting the Archer? That was all me. I’m the one who lay awake at night using those stories to help me satisfy my solitary desires.”

“Solitary desires?” Clint couldn’t believe that. “With some hero from an embellished tale for your imagination? Gods, Philip, I’m not sure which is worse. That you neglected to tell me you already knew my secrets or that you came here to find your fantasy man.”

“I know the difference between fantasy and real life, Clint. Those are just stories, damn it, not the truth,” Philip shot back. “And, yes, I worried before I arrived that my attraction to the fictional character would affect our relationship. But now I know you, and I can safely say that I much prefer you to the Archer.”

“Well, that’s good because I’m what you’re stuck with.” Clint knew that Philip’s words should reassure him, but he still didn’t believe it. Finishing his drink, Clint sat the mug down and started unbuttoning his new vest, the one Philip had gotten him that looked so good. Clint was confused; Loki’s insinuations about trust weren’t all that far off the mark. “You can report back to Fury that I’m going to do whatever I need to in order to protect my people. You don’t have to watch me to make sure.”

“You think that I’m here to watch you?” Philip sounded hurt. “I’m not Fury’s thane anymore, not since the minute I signed that contract. I’m your husband and these are my people too. Everything I’ve done has been with their good in mind. Whatever Loki said to you, Clint, this is what he wants, to drive a wedge between us.”

“I know.” He did. He understood Loki more than he understood his own husband. Loki had an agenda; he wanted something from them. Information, revenge, or just to cause trouble, Loki had one goal in mind. The problem was Clint didn’t know what Philip’s agenda was. “Honestly, I do. It’s just that I’m not a trusting person. And my life has turned upside down far too fast for comfort.”

Philip nodded in response, accepting Clint’s words as the last ones on the subject. Really, there was no argument; they both knew a month was not enough time to say beyond any doubt that they understood each other. So Clint tugged off his boots and prepared for bed in silence as Philip did the same. Crawling under the covers, Clint wondered if he was making a mistake that would cost him later. He hadn’t know how much he desired someone to share his life with, someone who would work beside him, someone he wanted in his bed. His pattern, it seemed, was to have a glimpse at how good things could be just before he did something to destroy it.

The bed sagged, rushes crackling as Philip sat down, blew out the light, and laid back. Careful to not touch, he rolled over, facing away from Clint and stilled. But Clint couldn’t get comfortable; as if he had an invisible itch, he rolled one way, then the other, shifting his legs, plumping up his pillow all in an effort to get to sleep. He ended up on his back, staring at the ceiling, frustrated.

Philip rolled onto his back and hooked an ankle around Clint’s, tangling their legs together. And, just like that, Clint relaxed, his muscles loosening and his brain slowing its endless recriminations. Turning on his side to face Philip, Clint rested a hand on Philip’s stomach; the rise and fall soothed the last of Clint’s anxieties. When Philip slipped his arm under Clint and drew him in, Clint went easily, burying his face into the curve of Philip’s neck, releasing the last pent up breath he was holding and drifting off to sleep.

_… the cold was chasing him as he ran, walls of the cave collapsing around him, green cascading down and pooling at his feet. Philip was across the square, in Bruce’s arms, dancing and laughing as the men with glowing blue eyes blocked Clint’s way. He could hear the clang of steel against steel, the sounds of battle echoing in the dark; Philip’s scream rang out and Clint stumbled, right into a pair of hands that caught him, pulling him up._

_“I have need of you,” Loki said, his brilliant blue eyes burning into Clint’s consciousness as the ice formed in his veins, freeze him in place and locking him in a frigid prison. “For you, he will do anything.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a specific Marvel character in mind for the Pirate Captain. He probably won't appear in this story, but maybe later ...


	10. Of Trysts and Tournaments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki makes his move on Philip and there's music and dancing. Then everything changes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've put links in for the music if you're interested. Rising Gael is a great band and Lorenna McKennitt is a wonderful artist.

_The ground was slick, cavern vast, ceiling lost in the darkness above him. Every sound echoed, bouncing among the rocky teeth, water dripping off the ends. No light but the green glow of the walls – Philip was lost, tired, and the ice was crawling up his legs, freezing cold through his pants, and encasing his bare chest. He struggled, brushing at it, trying to move his foot or break it with his hand, but it kept growing._

_“I need you,” Loki said, nothing but a shadowy figure beyond Philip’s sight._

“No.”

_Long fingers, pale hand stretched out, Philip bent back, away from the touch. The townspeople split around them, moving towards the square, as if they weren’t there at all. Tendrils of chill spun from the contact, covering Philip’s chest in patterns that became letters then joined into words._

_“Your magic is strong.” Loki was close now, his eyes as cold as his spell_.

“No.”

_He was drowning in ice, Clint’s handprint on his jaw the only heat he felt. Loki reached for him, his breath forming crystals that clung to Philip’s cheek as they danced to the fiddle that played behind them._

_“We’d be good together, I promise,” Loki whispered in his ear._

“No!”

_Searing bands circled his body, one around his waist, the other curving around his shoulders. So hot that steam rose, obscuring Philip’s vision. Loki waivered and became insubstantial then solidified again. The walls of the cave reflected the torch’s flames, glinting off the curve of metal that was there and then gone._

“He can’t have you,” _Clint said, tightening his hold. Philip leaned into the heat that was driving back Loki’s magic._

“Clint.” _Philip felt the power bubble up inside of him along with the welcome desire that always accompanied Clint’s touch. His back arched and his hands found Clint’s skin, the smooth ridge of hip bone to cling to._

_“Soon.” Loki’s last words as he faded, leaving just Clint and the insistent tug of his fingers as he unlaced Philip’s pants and stripped them off. The dream changed with each stroke of Clint’s hands -- the hold of a ship, captain’s quarters, the library at the university, the Abbey ruins, and back to the familiar cavern – and Philip groaned as Clint filled him, easing inside from behind. Clint’s hands splayed against Philip’s skin, one on his chest the other on his hip, radiating power into Philip as Clint slowly rocked in and out._

“I’ve got you. I’ll protect you,” Clint whispered into his ear as Philip came fully awake. They were sweating in the heat of the fire, skin rubbing against skin, and Philip moaned, the sound loud in the pre-dawn quiet. Clint’s fingers tightened around the curve of Philip’s ass, thumb digging just below the bone, and snapped his hips, driving into Philip hard and fast. A jolt of pure pleasure flashed up Philip’s spine; taking Clint’s other hand, Philip wrapped both their fingers around his aroused cock, stroking in time to Clint’s thrusts.

“The star to my wandering ship.” Philip had no idea where the words came from; they rose up with the magic and magnified the scorching heat of Clint’s hand imprinting his mark. Coming with a cry, Philip’s vision went white as he floated on the energy high. When he came down, he was lying on his back; Clint sprawled beside him, breathing harshly. Clint’s fingers left an echo on Philip’s skin that tingled.

“I dreamt that Loki took me; he wanted you. It was a different dream than the others, full of ice and cold, and I couldn’t save you.” Clint’s eyes were closed as he spoke, his fingers curling into frustrated fists.

“What other dreams?” Philip pushed up onto his elbow and turned to look at Clint. “I’ve been having dreams since I left TarianCastle. Loki’s been in them.”

“Caves and green walls and glowing blue eyes. I can see you, but can’t get to you.” Taking the hand Philip offered, Clint clung to him.

“You marked me,” Philip said. He rested a hand on Clint’s chest. A second mark; Philip could not remember reading about two claimings. They were in completely unfamiliar territory.

“Didn’t really think about it, I just know in my gut that Loki’s going to try something.” Clint’s other hand wrapped around Philip’s neck and tugged his head down for a slow, leisurely kiss. “One mark is good then two must be better.”

“Agreed.” Philip deepened the kiss, licking the seam of Clint’s lips until he parted them to let Philip in. As their tongues tangled, Philip let the energy go, imagining it spreading across Clint’s body, an invisible armor that sank into his skin. “Your worth unknown,” he whispered into Clint’s mouth.

“Phil,” Clint’s fingers spasmed along yesterday’s mark and Philip shifted over on top of Clint. The power exploded outward, their bodies at the center of a widening circle that rattled the heavy bed, pushed books off the shelf then blew through the room and down the hall, rumbling out of the manor. Philip was lost in the taste of Clint, the way Clint’s chest rose and fell under his fingers, the power not draining, but recasting itself into something new, unique to them both. Flames blazed on the stone hearth and Philip felt the warmth of Clint’s body all the way to his toes, mark calling to mark, making some sort of harmony, quiet and faint music that escaped when he tried to focus on it.

A knock sounded on the door, and Clint broke away from the kiss. “We’re fine,” he called out. Whoever was there went away without a word. “I think we just announced ourselves to everyone.”

“Loki already knew after last night’s attempt to work magic on you. And most people are still abed, so they might think it just a tremor.” That’s what Philip hoped anyway. The plan had been to keep their magic a secret; needless to say, they’d failed at that.

“Are you suggesting the earth moved when I kissed you? I’m flattered.” Clint laughed softly, twirling a lock of Philip’s hair between his forefinger and thumb. Gone was the unsure man from yesterday, the one worried about trusting Philip. This was the Clint Philip had come to know so well, the ready smile that charmed him. Another kiss, longer, easier, an exploration.

“I have so much to do this morning,” Philip sighed and laid his head on Clint’s chest. “But I’d rather stay here.”

“We’ll just send our apologies to the Prince, say that we’ve business in the manor and that Carol, no, better yet, Natasha will be happy to show him around the Faire.” Clint set about thoroughly convincing Philip with kisses as potent as any drug, making his legs weak and his resolve falter. What harm would it to do to stay locked in Clint’s arms for a few moments longer? Philip knew that once he left the warmth of this chamber, the intimacy would be tested by Loki and all the demands of the day.

As if on cue, another knock. “Water, my Lords,” the new chambermaid called through the door.

“Come,” he said. When Philip went to roll off of Clint’s chest, Clint stopped him, covering them with the quilt, but keeping his arms loose around Philip’s waist. Philip ducked his head in embarrassment as the young woman entered, bustled about for a few moments then left the room.

“Annemarie asked me to tell you she’s got the boys up and working already on setting up tables. Thane Danvers is at the practice field going over the lists for today’s competition. The Lady from Asgard is with her.” The maid gathered up their laundry to take with her.

“Thank you for stoking the fire earlier. Nice to wake up to a cozy room.” Clint seemed comfortable chatting with the girl; Philip couldn’t ignore the way Clint’s thigh was gliding up and down his own.

“Oh, no, Milord. That wasn’t me. Maybe Annemarie.” With a quick curtsey, the maid left.

“Subtlety is not Annemarie’s way,” Clint grumbled. “But I should go down and check on the preparations.”

“Breakfast first. Today will be long and Loki will be working his wiles.” The simple statements had done their job; both men accepted that they had to get moving. Washing up and dressing, they swung by the kitchen for a bowl of warm cinnamon oatmeal with golden raisins and honey, heading to the hall with a cup of coffee. The faint first rays of the autumn sun were filtering through the high windows when Philip saw Clerk Banner seated alone, eating his breakfast. He hesitated, glanced at Clint who nodded and went to sit next to Bruce. The clerk looked up, dark circles under his eyes and a pale wildness about his face.

“Well, that wasn’t noticeable. Just shook the tables,” he half-mumbled.

“Did you get any sleep last night?” Clint asked. Bruce shrugged and took up another spoonful of the warm cereal.

“I’m headed to bed now. It took most of the night to … calm myself.” Bruce didn’t seem to know how to explain his situation or whether he even wanted to try. Cocking his head, he looked both of them over carefully, curiosity chasing some of the exhaustion away. “What’s happened?”

“Have you ever heard of a claiming? And marking someone twice?” Philip asked, his voice pitched low so no one else could overhear.

“Claiming, yes. That story, remember, the one about Lord Roger’s Thanes, just before the Battle of Howls. Rogers claimed each one and gave them his protection. There was a ritual ….” Bruce’s eyes widened. “Yesterday at the practice field and during dinner? You marked each other?”

“And then again this morning.” Clint added that part. “Loki made a feint at me last night with magic. Very cold, icy magic.”

“Interesting.” Bruce’s eyes closed for a moment then they flew open again. “Not that he tried to, no, I mean, the cold, another kind of magic, so many at once, when there were none.”

Philip looked at Clint and they silently agreed. “Bruce, you need rest. You’re not making any sense. We can talk about this later.”

“Yes, I mean, no. I’ve never heard of two claims by the same person, or different people, or just two at all.” He was blinking at the raisin sliding off his spoon. “The Red Sorcerer used to coerce people with the spell, turn them into walking bodies without their souls, just automatons that followed orders.”

“I heard those tales growing up around here. Red eyes and pale skin; my brother liked to tell them to scare me, how the Sorcerer would come get me and make me his slave.” Clint nudged Philip’s knee under the table and rolled his eyes towards Bruce whose spoon was almost all the way down into his bowl, slipping out of his fingers...

“All right,” Philip stood up and stepped around beside Bruce. “Let’s get you to bed.”

“I can make it myself,” Bruce complained, but he let Philip help him up as he swayed. “You both have duties; I’ve imposed enough upon your hospitality and gotten in the way too much.”

“If you’re thinking of sneaking away,” Clint said, taking hold of Bruce’s other arm. “I’d advise against it. You’ve got some explaining to do first, and we need a researcher. Philip doesn’t have as much time for his books now that he’s running the Hold with me.”

“Not running. Not yet. Maybe later. Need to find out what’s going on.” Bruce’s words were slurring together as Annemarie saw them coming through the doorway; she bustled ahead and helped get Bruce’s bed turned down.  Aiming him towards the bed, they dropped him on the edge so he simply had to fall onto his back. His eyes were closing before they got his boots off and they left him snoring lightly as they shut the door.

“I’ll see everyone leaves him alone, the poor dear,” Annemarie said. “Out wandering around all night in that condition.”

“Condition?” Philip couldn’t help but ask, wondering what the woman knew or had figured out.

“I saw him dart into the trees when I went out to check that the tables had been cleared. Big and green … it’s been a long time since there’s been a berserker in these parts. My grandfather used to talk about a mighty warrior from the mountain tribes who could change like that. Imagine the quiet clerk one of them? Hard to fathom.” Annemarie glanced at the closed door. “Of course, Grandda used to tell a farfetched yarn about magic gone awry, but no one believed those.” She patted Clint on the arm. “Anyway, Edda said that you thanked her for the fire? Wasn’t one of us. I thought it was you; the temperature did get colder than expected last night. First thing a hedge wizard learns is to stoke a fire.”

Philip’s stomach dropped as he watched her go, her easy acceptance of magic both soothing and upsetting. He’d been so cold in his dream; could he have fanned the flames in his sleep?

“Handy trick if you did,” Clint answered the unspoken question. “Not having to get out of bed on cold mornings could be handy. Actually, I think I remember a conversation about not getting out of bed at all.”

“I wish staying in bed was an option.”

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~

So far, Philip’s day had gone very well. The Prince of Asgard liked to sleep, preferring to emerge later in the afternoon rather than early in the morning, so Philip enjoyed busy, but peaceful hours filled with expected emergencies like confusion over stall assignments, a roving band of young boys intent on stealing their breakfast and lunch from the vendors – thank the gods Theodore, William and Nathan were on their best behavior, dressed in their Barton livery as they spent their handful of coins around the marketplace – some complaints about pickpockets, and a few last minute arrangements for the evening’s entertainment. He could hear the cheers from the tournament rising and falling as he helped Annemarie fill the carts with pasties to take down to the field. The only black mark on his day was Sam’s absence; the tinker had been adamant that he was going to be back before today, last night at the latest. Saturday was a prime selling day and Luke had their wares out in the front yard of his shop, but Sam was missing. The big blacksmith was trying to appear unaffected by his cousin’s missed deadline but Philip was worried enough for the both of them. Sam was never late. He made his living off of being exactly where he said he would be.

Shifting the basket in his hand, Philip glanced up at the sun’s position, estimating the time at just after noon, maybe one o’clock or so as he rounded the end of the Guard House and headed towards the Lord’s box, a rather hastily arranged wooden structure with a good view of the field. Clint’s main job for the day was to serve as the judge for the various games; he was seated there now in a chair they’d rescued from the study, Jessica on his right hand and Loki on his left. Sif and another Asgardian soldier were with the McCarters, near the Huskeys and the Frasiers. The sight of the black haired prince made Philip’s stomach clench; today, the man was wearing black again with only the smallest traces of green, his hair not slicked back but loose and curling around his face. It softened his face as did the smile he aimed at Clint before he turned to the man seated on a footstool between them. Philip recognized Andrew, the groomsman’s face covered by a fall of brown hair as he leaned in to hear Loki’s response.  Leaning a shoulder along Clint’s leg, Andrew faced the Prince, flirty and friendly. Philip could see it then, why so many people found Loki attractive; the man was the epitome of charming.

Philip stumbled, catching his toe on a tuft of grass, the only outward show of the way his emotions plummeted, a stab of worry pressing into his chest. Despite the perfect fall weather, he shivered as if caught in a cold crosswind; Clint looked up and their eyes met, his gaze almost a physical touch, marks warming like phantom hands holding him tight. The doubt faded to a dull ache, and Philip heard it, the faintest sound of single notes. He wasn’t as good at hiding his feeling as Clint or Natasha but he did keep walking, only the small break in his stride noticeable to Loki’s keen sight. As he walked up the wooden steps, Philip managed a smile by keeping his focus on Clint.

“I’ve brought you a gift basket from our Chatelaine. She feared there would be none left at the tables, so she sent these.” Philip addressed Loki, bending slightly at the waist as a sign of respect.  Pulling away the cloth, he sat the basket on the floor between Clint and Loki, near Andrew’s feet. The array of pasties was warm from the oven and the aroma wafted out. “Our options are chicken with cranberries and sage or pork with cabbage and raisins. I’ve been warned the pork is spicy with some heat.”

“Ah the famous pasty? I believe I will try the spiced pork.” He picked it up with his fingers when Philip pointed to the correct one.  Like a fine wine, he smelled the pastry before taking a bite, savoring the taste. “Excellent. The chilies are delightful. I rarely see such spices this far north; I keep trying to get our cooks in the palace to try new things, but they are such traditionalists. I may have to tempt your cooks away.”

“I wish you good luck with that endeavor,” Clint said as he took one of the chicken pasties and offered the basket to Andrew. Philip signaled to the serving girls and they brought more cider or mulled wine to refill glasses.

“We were talking of horses; Prince Loki’s palfrey is an amazing animal,” Jessica supplied as she snagged a spicy pork. “Quite spirited.”

“Sleipner is a handful, I give you that. Very high strung, but I love her like she was my own child. Your man here is the first Midlander I’ve met who can handle her. Very impressive.” Loki said.

“She’s a beautiful lady and just needs to be treated that way.” Andrew shrugged and Philip was impressed with the man’s calm. “Stroke her the right way and she’ll ride well.”

“Oh, this place continually surprises me. Much more fun than the capital and the court, I can tell you.” Loki threw his head back as he laughed, a throaty sound that was honest and real. “Perhaps she’ll let you mount her later, Andrew; she’s quite taken with you and will pout all the way home if I don’t let her have her run.”

“I’d be honored,” Andrew said, eyes twinkling with good humor. “And I promise I give her the best rub down afterwards she’s ever had.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Laird McCarter laughed. “Let her have her lead, rub her down, and keep your woman happy … ouch,” he complained as his wife kicked his shin.

“Sit with us and eat, Philip. I’d wager you haven’t taken a moment to yourself today.” Melinda said, nudging Jessica’s shoulder, but the Thane was already moving to give Philip her seat next to Clint. Sif made a spot for her and handed her a full mug.

“The morning has been good, but those do smell delicious.” A memory of how the morning started flashed in his mind and Philip knew he was blushing despite his best efforts. Clint grinned and ducked his head to try and hide it which did nothing to help, so Philip tried to change the subject, “How go the games?”

“Well. The log toss was a crowd pleaser; one of the Huskeys won only because Liam McCarter drank too much mulled wine. His log went the furthest, but knocked over the equipment racks.” Clint shifted in his chair, sitting his drink down so he could stroke the back of Philip’s hand; energy leaked between them without any effort. Loki’s eyes drifted to their hands, and he noticed.

“I saw the last few throws.” Philip took a mug of cider, sipping it to keep a clear head. “I thought Deirdre Frasier had a real shot at winning.”

“Did you see Carol and the Lady Sif’s tosses?” Jessica asked.

“What? No! I missed that. How did that come about?” Just the lightest of touch from Clint and Philip’s brain was stilling. He was always thinking, worrying about what had to be done; sitting here with Clint, even if Loki was nearby, Philip could see the good in the world not just all the what ifs and what needed to be done.

“I challenged Thane Danvers to a feat of strength after we saw the first toss. It was enjoyable, if more difficult that I imagined. It’s not simply a matter of picking it up and throwing; you need balance and aim, plus you have to take into account the aerodynamics of the length and the weight.” Sif reached for a second spicy pasty.

“That’s Sif’s way of explaining why Thane Denver’s log went further than hers,” Loki said with good humor. One thing Philip had already realized was that Loki took pleasure in poking open wounds. “But neither of them bested the winner.”

“You’ll laugh when we integrate a toss into our training regime,” Sif arched an eyebrow. “I think it would be good for the soldiers.”

“And Volstagg will be the best at it, behind only my brother, aye,” Loki laughed and let the subject drop.

They continued to eat as the field was set up for the archery contest. The basket emptied quickly as did the pitchers; before the first bowmen lined up to take their shots, Philip leaned to Clint. “I have to go; there are arrangements to be made still for the performance and I want to check on a few things.”

“Of course.” Clint’s voice betrayed nothing, but Philip felt the little pulse of energy, the softest notes in accompaniment. _Be careful and_ _don’t get lost_. Maybe it was his own fears from those dreams that made him hear things. Melinda stood and brushed the crumbs from her dress, an ochre colored yellow that made her skin even more sallow. When combined with her McCarter plaid drape, she clashed in a particularly violently way today.

“Well, I for one am ready for more shopping. There’s a haberdasher with the most delightful hats that Lady Thomas told me about. Real peacock feathers on plaid tams, and he’ll dye them whatever color I want.” She used her ample hips to her advantage and pushed her husband aside.

“What, woman? There’s archery then the jousting! You’d have me leave now to get you some more fripperies? You’ve got enough hats and scarves and shoes and gloves for the whole clan as it is,” Richard protested.

“Did I say you had to come? No, I did not.” She turned to Prince Loki. “Have you been to the marketplace yet, your Highness? I’d be honored to show you.”

“That sounds delightful,” he stood, all grace and fluid movement. “We would join you, if that’s alright, Lord Philip?”

Clint gave Philip’s forearm a quick squeeze; Loki noticed that as well.  “I would be happy to escort you,” Philip said.

Sif went to stand, but Loki motioned her to remain seated. “Stay and enjoy yourself. Scald can accompany me along with Bernard. Lady Melinda, Lord Philip and I will be fine.” She inclined her head in acknowledgement and watched them go.

“Don’t spend all my money, woman!” Laird McCarter shouted. “And take that dratted boy with you to carry things.”

“Married how many years and you still don’t know that telling her that will make her buy more?” Leo Huskey asked. “See, Clint, you have the best of it. A sensible spouse who knows when to spend money and when to save it. I hear he’s a haggler, good man …”

The voices faded behind them as Loki shortened his strides to keep pace with Melinda’s shorter legs, and they joined the flow of people heading to visit the stalls. The town was packed, streets almost overflowing at this time of day; people were coming in from distant villages, Stark lands and even further. Most, Philip suspected, wanted to see the rebuilding process and gawk at the new Lords, or they wanted to hear the entertainment. Whatever the reason, the numbers meant more income for the local farmers, taverns filled to overflowing, and record sales for the craftsmen and artisans.

“I see your royal court is as isolated as ours,” Loki said. “They believe this hold to be on a downward spiral. Obviously, they are wrong. Part of this is due to your hard work, I imagine.”

“These are good people, hard workers. They just needed the right push,” Philip replied. He didn’t like compliments, especially when he did not deserve them. Clint had been well on his way to earning the people’s respect before Philip had arrived; he would have made things better, maybe just not quite as quickly.

“Modesty. A difficult trait to find.” Loki rested his hand briefly on the small of Philip’s back as they maneuvered around a mother with three children haggling over new shirts. “I find myself regretting more and more the lateness of my suit.”

“I need work, to be busy. Idle hands are not my life.” Philip carefully stated his answer for the question. “I have read about Asgard, enough to know that your mother and sisters have the court running smoothly.”

“I have my own household,” Loki said, “which I fear is in poor repair since I’ve been away.”

“What do you think of this one?” Melinda turned, a monstrosity of a hat upon her head, bright red with three peacock feathers curling over the curved brim. “They can dye the feathers yellow.”

Philip was at a loss for words but Loki was not. “My lady, no mere hat can match the beauty of your soul. You are radiant in whatever you chose to wear.”

“Oh, my, you are good,” she blushed. “But that doesn’t help me decide. What about this one?” She replaced the red with a low tam that was Black Watch plaid, one long feather hanging over her ear. “In McCarter plaid, of course.”

“To honor your clan? What an excellent idea.” Loki smiled. “We’ll take both, my good man,” he said to the craftsman.

“I’m afraid Richard wouldn’t agree to that, your Highness,” Melinda protested. “He’s a proud man.”

“Then we just won’t tell him, will we?” Loki bent his head down and whispered as if conspiring. “Now, let’s set a good price.”

Philip watched as Melinda bargained the haberdasher down from his opening bid to a very reasonable price for both hats. As Loki directed his servant to pay the final amount, he glanced at Philip, humor evident on his face, not at Melinda’s expense but pure delight in her company. He stepped back and amiably bumped his shoulder into Philip’s. Once the hats were safely ordered, they continued on their way. Melinda, as it turned out, was a champion shopper. She stopped at stall after stall, buying linen for new tablecloths, muslin for sheets, a length of yellow wool for a new coat, the same dried spicy chilies that were in the pork pasties to try at home, jewelry for her daughter-in-laws, and wooden toys for the younger children. The boy accompanying her was loaded down with parcels by the time they came to the silver shop next to Luke Cage’s smithy. The pieces in the window were delicate and with unusual patterns dotted with various gems. Philip’s eye was drawn to a cloak clasp with amethysts set into interlocking links that curved back around and never ended.

“A Josephine knot. Very fitting.” Loki said, looking over his shoulder. “Fine workmanship …” he faded off, his eyes caught by something else. “One moment.” Stepping inside, the Prince asked the older woman behind the counter to see the piece. Silver filigree wound around a small moonstone, colorless with a slight blue sheen, one of the finest quality stones Philip had ever seen. The whole pin looked like a spinning wheel, but more abstract.

“Lord Philip,” the woman curtsied when she saw him. “Welcome to our store. Can I show you anything?”

“The amethyst clasp, if you will,” he asked, his attention taken by the way Loki stroked his long fingers along the curves of the pin; his face, for the moment, was open and unguarded.

“A wedding gift for Lord Barton? It will look good with a matching cloak for his new vest, if I may say.” She laid the clasp down on a piece of velvet. “And you, sir, that’s a fine bit of work there. My husband designed it himself part of a series in honor of his mother’s passing. She made tapestries, spinning the wool into thread and dying it herself. She was a good woman; raised a passel of sons, all of whom are craftsmen.”

“The workmanship is excellent.” Loki turned it over in his hand. “My mother would enjoy a memento. How much?”

“Well, it is special to him and the stone is top water, so I couldn’t let it go for less than 50 gold.”

“Come, come, Madame. This is lovely work, but I could buy a piece signed by the King’s royal jeweler for less than that. Five gold is more like it.” Loki settled into the game and seemed to relish the interaction as they went back and forth, the woman pretending to be affronted by the low offers and Loki finding even the smallest flaws. When they arrived close to each other, Philip slid the clasp over beside the pin.

“What if I buy both? 30 for the lot?”

“Sold, Milord.” She smiled; the price was fair plus her husband’s work would be on display at the manor and even the far flung royal court of Asgard. Bragging rights, indeed.

“Philip, I cannot let you,” Loki protested. “’Tis for my mother.”

“A gift from her almost son-in-law, then,” Philip said. He counted out the money and handed the small bag to the prince.

“Your Highness,” the shop woman curtsied again, abashed at her ignorance for not recognizing Loki. “Had I known I would have offered you the pin.”

“Nonsense,” Loki flashed her a disarming smile, and she melted beneath his regard. “Such art deserves to be compensated. Besides, I do so enjoy a good haggle. Feels almost like a hunt; such success when you don’t over or under pay.”

Melinda came in the door and had to see what they had purchased to ooh and ah over. Then she had to look at the other jewelry, and Philip slipped outside to check; there was still no tinker’s wagon in the smithy yard. Loki stepped up behind, his hand falling on Philip’s shoulder. Wrongness engulfed Philip, a primal fear that made him jump and turn quickly. He needed to see Loki, an instinctual reaction to keep his enemy in his sights.

“Forgive me. I didn’t mean to startle you.” Loki’s voice soothed.

Philip tried to smooth over his action with a laugh, but it sounded hollow even to his own ears. “Woolgathering, I guess.”

Loki slipped his hand under Philip’s elbow and steered him a few steps back between the buildings. “I had been hoping to ask if you are pleased with your place here. I feel some responsibility for the situation since, as you mentioned, you were almost mine to take care of.”

“I am very content.” Loki’s up and down emotions were making Philip uncomfortable. They’d already given too much away, and today had actually made Philip start to see the Prince as more human and less a threat, at least until a moment ago. “As I said, I can make a difference here, help these people.”

Loki’s knowing blue eyes speared Philip. “I asked if you are happy, not if you are working hard.”

“I am.” He began to sweat and energy churned in his gut, reacting to Loki’s blunt question and the man’s proximity. But there was nowhere for the magic to go without calling attention to itself, so he shoved it down. 

Loki stepped forward, Philip stepped back and he felt the wall against his back. “I rarely feel regret, but I find myself wondering what might have been.” Long fingers brushed Philip’s hair behind his ear, leaving little trails of ice that wound along Philip’s cheek and down to his jawline where they met Clint’s mark and dissolved like snow in the sun.  Tilting his head up, Philip found Loki’s lips hovering close to his.

“Your attention flatters me, your Highness, but I am quite satisfied with my husband.” Philip tried to state it plainly; he needed to get away and find somewhere to release the magic that was threatening to boil over. “More than satisfied, in fact.”

“Yes, I see that even if you don’t. Two-thirds of the way there, and you still are in the dark,” Loki mused, stroking the back of Philip’s hand and sending more tendrils up his arm where they melted away. “Fascinating,” he murmured, tracing the line of Philip’s belt and making the mark on Philip’s hip flare to life. “Too bad really. I would have enjoyed teaching you, but one cannot fight the whims of that bitch Fate. It will be interesting to see how this all plays out.”

“There you are, My Lord!” Mayor Garrett came to a stop near them. “Am I interrupting something?” He didn’t bother to hide his interest, just waited, taking in every detail of the moment – Loki’s hand on Philip’s waist, the closeness of their bodies.

“No,” Philip said, moving away from the wall; Loki easily stepped back. The best reaction was to have none at all. Garrett was a gossip of the first stripe; his version of what he thought he saw would be all over town within the hour. “Do you need something, Mayor?”

“We’ve a problem with the staging, it seems. Not enough seating in the square; they want to move out to Kirk’s fallow instead, but Kirk is none too keen on the idea. Perhaps if you spoke to him,” Garrett said. “I’ll be glad to take the Prince on a tour if you need me to.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Loki said, ice in his voice directed at the interloper. “I shall see Lady McCarter about and then return her to her husband. You two go on and prepare for the musician.”

“I’ll tell them you’re on your way, Milord,” Garrett said, leaving after one more sidelong glance back at them. Philip wanted to close his eyes and sigh, but there was too much energy churning inside for that.

“Best find a way to disperse that magic soon,” Loki leaned in to say. “Holding it in will only serves to distort it, turn it wild, and untamed magic leads to disasters like your friend, the clerk. Learn to release little by little throughout the day. A free lesson in return for the gift.”

He left Philip standing there, unable to think of any reply or even a protest, just that he needed to get to Clint before the rumors reached the practice field. Luke was speaking with customers, so Philip headed to the food vendors, finding Madge’s stall where she was doing a brisk business in fried pies, delightful bites of apples, dough, and powdered sugar. Ordering enough for all those in Clint’s box, Philip started to give the delivery boy a message when Natasha appeared beside him.

“I’m heading that way,” she said. Patting Philip on the shoulder, she picked up the full basket. “I’ll set him straight.”

“I’d ask how, but you wouldn’t tell me, would you?” Philip only shook his head at Natasha’s network of information.

“I could but then it would be difficult to do my job.” She winked. “Go mediate. I can handle Clint and will take care of the Mayor.”

“As much as I hate to admit it, we need Garrett, so no accidents, please,” Philip joked. At least, he thought he was joking. Natasha nodded in agreement as she left, and Philip went off to soothe ruffled feathers and make sure the rest of the day went as well as the morning.

Unfortunately, the meeting became a major logistical problem that Philip had to tackle; he’d hoped to be back at the field for the award ceremony, but he was stuck overseeing the building of a dance floor to avoid broken and sprained ankles, then he had to talk to the food vendors about the move. Many of them elected to take Philip up on the offer of space closer to the new venue. Jessica came up with the solution for the lack of stalls; they backed wagons into loose semi-circles and used the drop gates as counters. Setting the three pages to work hanging lanterns from the trees while the squires drove poles into the ground for torches, Philip managed to create a party atmosphere before people began to wander their way.  As the day moved into the evening, shopkeepers shuttered their windows and packed away their goods. Thankful he’d gotten the cider and ale merchants up and running first, Philip watched as money began to change hands for full mugs, the alcohol creating a good mood while the food sellers got ready.

The first musicians started playing early, the sound of their voices and instruments carrying up the hill to the manor and down into town. The location turned out to be much better than the square; here there was room to fan out, people dragging benches under the eaves of trees to sit and have conversation while others gathered around the main stage and still more clustered in groups as they ate. Townspeople, members of Clint’s company, manor servants, visiting craftsmen and merchants all mingled together with laughter and raised voices shouting welcome to each other. Even Loki’s presence with his entourage of soldiers and servants didn’t dampen the spirits of a successful Faire. The Prince seemed to be sampling everything; somewhere along the way, Loki had found Andrew who was entertaining their visitor with a flow of conversation. That worried Philip until he noticed Carol and Sif within ear’s distance; Carol nodded Philip’s way to reassure him that Loki was under her eye.

“You best eat, Milord.” Richardson the Baker tapped Philip on the shoulder. Ever since his son had been injured, the man was doing everything he could to make up for his reaction. Now, he held a round of dark brown bread, top sliced off and inside hollowed out to make room for steaming stew chock full of potatoes and chunks of lamb. “Been watching you run yourself ragged today. You need this.”

Philip’s stomach rumbled at the enticing smell before he could frame the words to thank the man. “Guess I am hungry at that.” He took the dense bread and the proffered spoon. “Thank you.”

“You take the evening off and listen to the music. Damn fine job you’ve done here, and you deserve to enjoy it.” He turned and left Philip standing with the food.

“That looks good. I could eat a horse I think, but don’t tell Lucky,” Clint peered around Philip’s shoulder. “Think I could get one? Or is that the spoils of war to the conquering hero?”

“We can manage some food for you, I suppose. After all, sitting and watching others work hard is a difficult job,” Philip teased. They’d seen each other for a grand total of forty-five minutes since they left the manor this morning and that included the brief lunch in the grandstand. Garrett had done his best to make sure everyone knew of Philip’s supposed tryst; the weight of many gazes were upon them, wondering if the story was true.

“The games were highly entertaining. Next year, you have to judge some yourself. Maybe a duel swords competition.” Clint slid a hand around Philip’s waist and laid a quick kiss on the curve of Philip’s neck. 

“He needs to eat while it’s hot,” Natasha said, nudging Clint as she came up to them. “I’ll get some for us if you grab a table before they’re all gone.”

Being the Lord of the manor meant that there was always a good seat; one of the Huskey sons waved them over to a table under the eaves of a tree with brilliant red leaves, close to the music but away from the main area. Philip settled onto a bench, and Clint wedged himself in beside him, pressing their shoulders and legs together.

“There’s plenty of room,” Philip said, but he was actually liked the closeness. He hadn’t forgotten what Loki had said earlier about finding little ways to release the energy; touching Clint opened a conduit between them and the power flowed out, bit by tiny bit, in a constant trickle. A slow burn that built warmth in Philip’s chest.

“Indeed there is, but then I wouldn’t get to do this.” Clint agreed. He ran a hand along Philip’s leg and came to rest on his knee.

Natasha arrived with Bruce in tow and set down bread bowls for them, followed by William with a pitcher of mulled wine and goblets. The other two boys were hanging back, eager to get to the dessert booths; William ran off immediately to join them. Philip was glad to see the clerk looking much more rested and how eagerly Bruce tucked into his meal. The stew was thick and hearty, leaving a warm trail in Philip’s chest as he spooned up bites; the bread was nutty, easy to rip off and dip into the broth. As they ate, people dropped by the table, first the Frasiers, then the McCarters and the Huskeys. The Mayor stopped but Clint was deep in a discussion about a new archery range and Philip was talking about winter’s storage needs, so Natasha handled him by turning the topic to marriageable daughters right in front of two single Huskeys and a couple of McCarter sons. That was enough of a distraction to keep the Mayor happily contemplating the possibilities.

The second group of musicians took the stage, two fiddle players with a lead singer, a mandolin, back up guitars, and a handheld set of drums. They launched into [“The Raggle Taggle Gypsy,”](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M8Ngg79jt5w) a crowd pleaser with a fast pace and fun lyrics about a wandering wife who runs away with her gypsy lover. More than a few quick peeks were thrown their way during the song but then toes tapped, people started clapping in time, and the mood shifted from food to a party.  “[Change in Your Demeanor](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gOCNxjMHSpc&list=PLBCg06l-QlbsmgyLlY84QJmTfved-Zn1L&index=6)” followed, and the dancing broke out spontaneously. Watching the couples spin around the floor, Philip was glad they’d given this local band a prime spot; he’d bet they’d be making a name for themselves within a year.

When they started an instrumental version of the old legend “[Tam Lin](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sVcw2KrIxRA),” Clint laughed and pulled Philip to his feet. He tried to protest that he didn’t dance, but Clint just shook his head and said “Lord’s prerogative.”

The beat was fast then slowed, building again and again, just like the ebb of power inside Philip. Each time their bodies came into contact as they spun through the quick steps, Philip could feel little jolts of electricity jump from skin to skin. Clint was humming along, as happy as Philip had ever seen him, and  they stayed for the next number, “[Whiskey in a Jar](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vd7dRQnyYgg)” a  fair choice considering Richard McCarter had broken out the good stuff and was sharing the single malt around the table.

After a glass of the peaty amber liquid, Clint danced with Natasha, and Philip took a turn with Jessica, switching partners until he’d danced with all of the Thanes before Clint claimed him again. At one point, he saw Clint with Lady Sif, and they both danced with Melinda who had more energy than all of them put together.

Loki remained seated although he looked like he was enjoying the music. When the band segued into the [Dublin Reels,](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T82TtGVjLnw) Philip steeled himself and asked the Prince if he’d like to dance. Loki turned him down with a wave and a laugh, making his preference for the amber liquid in his glass plain. Philip took another finger of scotch, sat down to drink it, and a slice of pie appeared in front of him. As if summoned by Rachel’s pie crust, Clint joined him for his own piece, breathless and sweaty from the exertion. Lust stirred, buoyed by the warmth of drink and shared energy, and Philip stroked Clint’s arm absently as the music slowed, the group finishing their set with a lonesome ballad of [lost love and a black veil](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RYE-x0Yje98). Maybe it was the lower inhibitions or the whiskey, but Philip knew this need for Clint would be there regardless.

All he could focus on was the bit of apple filling clinging to the corner of Clint’s mouth. Noticing, Clint turned and cocked his head, his eyes darkening with a matching heat. Running the tip of his tongue around his lips, he caught the bit and licked it clean until Philip had to kiss him. Whiskey and apples, cinnamon and the sweet taste of sugar, Clint tasted a little like fall and a lot like home. Philip ignored the sounds around them and heard only the soft intake of breath as Clint returned the kiss. As he pulled back, Philip knew he could sink into those blue-green eyes and never want to leave.

“We could slip away,” he said without thinking. “Walk along the creek and find a nice dark bower in the trees.”

“Yes,” Clint agreed. “And everyone will know what we’re doing. I thought that bothered you.”

“I’m getting used to the idea,” Philip admitted. “Besides, I’ve seen a fair number of couples already sneak away. Another good thing about this location; we might have a spat of babies born come early summer.”

“Good evening.” The woman who took the stage had long red hair and a soft voice that carried across the field. Everyone hushed as she spoke. “We’ve a good set ready for you tonight and our first number is in honor of the new Lords of the Holding. May they have long and healthy life together with much love and laughter.”

“There goes that idea,” Clint muttered as a roar of approval went up and the crowd turned their way. The song was of lovers meeting at night, wrapped in each other. She sang the chorus and smiled their way.

[Oh night thou was my guide](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fzHeT-Go4Zg)  
Of night more loving than the rising sun  
Oh night that joined the lover  
To the beloved one  
Transforming each of them into the other

When McKennitt moved into the familiar tale of “[The Bonny Swans](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O-iIPruIdSg),” Melinda clapped the loudest at her favorite, and Philip joined the crowd as they sang along with refrain, “with a hey, ho, a bonny o.”

As the music surrounded them, Philip settled his back against the tree trunk; someone had thoughtfully pulled the bench closer. Clint leaned against him, and Philip circled his arms around Clint’s waist, the weight of Clint’s head on his shoulder welcome and grounding. Natasha rolled her eyes when she saw they were holding hands; Bruce smiled. Jessica was just behind Carol, resting her feet on the bench next to the blonde. Sif was nearby, and even Loki seemed entranced by the beautiful melodies being woven on the stage. There was something about the moment – truly at ease – and Philip felt the notes shifting, dropping along his skin like rain, creating a power of their own that mixed with his and Clint’s. He could hear them in his head, a melodic line that danced with electricity but didn’t make him feel full or dangerous. No, this was like drawing power from all around him, bringing McKennitt’s tune into their own song and weaving them together into a seamless whole.

McKennitt had just begun [“Marco Polo”](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qG0cDEqpG_E) when Philip felt a tap on his shoulder. Annemarie motioned for his attention and tugged at Clint’s shirt to alert him as well. As silently as possible, they rose and skirted around the table. “We need you in the stables,” the chatelaine said once they were far enough out of earshot. She spoke quickly, checking to be sure they weren’t overheard. “You’ll need Clerk Banner. I’ll get him and the others as quietly as I can.”

They got to the doors of the stable in a short time, the town virtually deserted, everyone at the party. Standing just inside the door was Rodriguez, who was on guard for the evening; she motioned them into the half-finished grooms’ area as soon. Slumped on one of the old wooden bedsteads, feet on the floor and his shoulders resting against the wall, was Samuel Wilson.

“Sam?” Philip sat down next to him; even that small motion made the other man moan in pain. Close up, his dark skin was washed out, streaks of dirt mixed with what looked like dried blood on his cheeks and forehead. He was cradling an arm across his stomach and Philip could see brighter red seeping between his fingers. “What happened?”

“Too many of them.” Sam’s voice was thready, and his breathing was short and quick. “They hit Maynard Huskey’s place and Nelly’s Crossroads. People there need help, so many wounded and dead.” He coughed, wet and full of pain. “I followed their trail; they’re headed for McCarter Hall; there’s too many of ‘em. Maybe a hundred fighters plus trained animals.” His eyelids slid shut and he shuddered.

“Bruce is on his way, just hold on,” Philip said, taking Sam’s hand and squeezing.

 Bruce came through the door, the others right behind him. He knelt down between Sam’s knees and gently coaxed Sam to move his arms. Philip’s eyes widened and his heart fell; three long gashes ran vertically across Sam’s stomach, skin and fat curled back. A semi-circle was gnawed on Sam’s side, teeth worked deep into his muscle and sinew. From the angry red of the surrounding skin, Philip knew an infection had already set in … or something worse.

“Carol, get Richard McCarter and Leo Huskey … hell, we’ll need all the Lairds if we’re going to mount a big enough force to make a difference,” Clint said. “Try not to start a panic. Bring them to the main hall.”

She left immediately. Bruce looked at Philip, the bad news written on his face. “We need to apply pressure …” he began, looking around. Philip jumped up and grabbed a clean horse blanket stowed in the corner, folding it over and holding it against Sam’s stomach, pressing down. “I need hot water, boiled then cooled, and some whiskey. My kit is in my room.”

“I’ve got it,” Annemarie said from the doorway. She had the healer’s kit under her arm, a bucket of steaming water and a basket of clean rags. “Still plenty of cobwebs in the old apothecary. I’ll get some to help close the wounds.” She bustled back out.

“She’s amazing,” Natasha said and Philip would have called her on the irony of that statement, but he could feel Sam’s insides moving beneath his hands. The man’s face was ashen, his life slipping away in this room full of people. 

“Tell us about them, Sam,” Clint urged, trying to keep Sam focused on the here and now.  “Militia? Bandits? Soldiers?”

“Oh, gods,” Sam whispered. “Those plus farmers and knights, all with glowing blue eyes, but that’s not the worst.” Trying to sit up, Sam sucked in a breath and almost cried out.

“Stay still,” Bruce ordered. Dark spots were growing on the blanket as Sam convulsed once, then again before he calmed.

 “Doesn’t matter,” Sam shook his head. “Listen to me. They weren’t alive, do you understand? Some still looked human, recently dead; you could see the wounds that killed them. Others were older, barely any skin left, just bones and tatters of clothes. Undead.”

No one bothered to gainsay Sam’s declaration; revenants and other myths no longer seemed impossible. Still, they all needed a moment for the facts to sink in; Clint was the first to speak. “Jessica, the bodies of the bandits. Buried or burned?”

“Burned, but it won’t hurt to check,” she said.

“Salt the ground where the bones are,” Bruce asked without turning his head as she went to leave, still intently mixing herbs for a poultice. “Just to be sure.”

 “What did this to you? Talk to me. It will help you focus.” Clint leaned over Sam. A stirring of energy as Bruce took the bottle of whiskey that appeared next to him – Annemarie again – and nodded to Philip to pull the bloody blanket away. As soon as the wounds were visible, Bruce poured a liberal amount of the alcohol over them. Sam nearly came off the bed, biting back a scream into an aborted cry. With a damp cloth, Bruce began gently cleaning off the dirt and blood. Clint tapped his fingers on the back of Philip’s hand; he too was feeling the echoes of Bruce’s energy as it pulsed, as if they were now attuned to the clerk’s power. It wasn’t like Philip’s awareness of Clint; this connection with Bruce was fainter, more tenuous.

 “An animal I’ve never seen before … Looked like a wolf but bigger … meaner … hell you could ride one. Claws like a bear, and nasty set of teeth … gods, that hurts.” Sam was growing weaker by the minute.

“Wargs.” Lady Sif said. Philip hadn’t realized she’d entered the room. “Forgive my intrusion. When Laird McCarter left, I thought to offer my aid and I can give you information. They are creatures from the Asgardian side of the Mountains. They usually keep to the upper reaches and pose dangers only to those who enter their territory. Their fangs are poisonous. We may have some of the antidote with us since they attack travelers in the pass. If you would allow me, I would send for the Prince. He is a skilled healer.”

“Please do. We would appreciate his help.” Clint made the decision, and Philip was glad to let him do it. The last thing Philip wanted was Loki here; he didn’t trust the Prince at all. But, he might be Sam’s best hope; Bruce was clearly worried, his brow furrowed. Green rivulets appeared on Bruce’s hands, running out from under his cuffs. The energy was shifting, and Philip remembered what Loki had said about wild magic. Philip could tell the difference between the stability of Clint’s magic versus the fluctuating power coming from Bruce.  Philip tried to keep Sam calm by cradling his head with his hands, thinking of warmth as he released tiny pulses into Sam’s clammy skin.

“Phil,” Sam murmured, turning his head restlessly. “I left the wagon at the Crossroads Inn. Promise you’ll bring it back.”

“We’ll get it, don’t worry,” Phil agreed.

“You, Phil. You know.” Sam’s voice faded into a gasp as Bruce worked.

“Sif says your friend has been bitten by a warg.” Loki knelt next to Bruce and looked over Sam’s wounds. “Both claws and teeth, I see. It’s amazing he survived the initial attack. Fortunately, I have experience with these this creatures.” He rested one hand on Sam’s stomach heedless of the blood and gore and touched two fingers to the middle of Sam’s forehead.

It took every reserve Philip had to not jerk Loki’s hand away when a wave of blue crept from his fingers, turning Sam’s skin icy.  A chill washed over Philip; he’d never experienced concentrated power welded by a trained user. Confidence, that’s how Philip would characterize Loki’s signature. He watched in amazement as the edges of the wounds uncurled, came back together and began to heal. Doubt aside, Loki knew what he was doing.

“There’s something … unnatural,” Loki murmured, eyes closed as if looking inward. “Feel it? Right there. That’s why he’s still with us; they wanted him alive.”

A tension, something dark that felt sharp and jagged in Philip’s head, rose out of Sam, pulled by Loki’s spell. It stabbed into Philip’s consciousness, a smoky mist that hung suspended then darted outwards, trying to escape. With a snap of his fingers, Loki made it dissipate, releasing the power to seep away.  Sam’s eyes closed, he sighed and slumped, breathing evenly.

“He will need sleep to regain strength, but he will be fine.” Loki pushed up; standing he towered over them. “You have a problem, it seems. That spell was the work of a powerful sorcerer, one that we are familiar with.”

“It is why we have been recalled,” Sif added. “There have been attacks along the border in the mountains much like the one your friend detailed. I would be honored to aid you in this battle, Lord Barton. I could learn much about what might be a common foe.”

So much for maintaining their secrets, Philip thought. The Asgardians probably even knew about the Dugan connection and their search for a lost item, considering how good Loki was at manipulating people. The harm, it seemed, was already done, so he shrugged when Clint glanced his way.

“I’d be honored to fight alongside you, My Lady,” Clint said.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things speed up from here on out as the battle finally comes to them.


	11. He Who Swings the Sword

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> danger surrounds them all as they ride hard to protect the McCarter people. A villain reveals himself ... or does he?

“We’re almost at the turn off,” Carol told Clint as she reined her horse in beside him. They were riding as fast as they could, Richard McCarter and his men in the lead. Even at this speed, it would be a miracle if they made the Hall in time. Logistics were simply what they were; nothing was more than a day or two hard ride from Barton Manor, but the Crossroads, the first place that had been attacked, was a good three days from McCarter Hall by horse. From Sam’s information, the revenants, as Bruce named them, were moving much slower than that, but the tinker took thirty hours to get to Fraiserton, an amazing pace despite his wounds, and the group had not left until sunrise the next day. Glancing ahead towards the valley they were riding down into, he could see the place the troop would split.

“I’ll tell Philip,” Clint nodded and peeled off from the front of the line to ride back to where Philip and Bruce were. There’d been no time to argue, nor did Clint want to debate Philip’s plan in front of all the holders. It did, after all, make sense to have two groups, one to aid the survivors at the Crossroads and another to protect McCarter land. If Clint didn’t like Philip and Bruce leading the relief team, he certainly hadn’t been onboard with Melinda and Andrew coming along, but the woman had originally wanted to go home. Only her husband and sons’ intervention had convinced her to aid the others instead. Philip was more than capable of keeping himself whole and healthy – Clint had seen that during the bandit attack – and Natasha and Annamarie could certainly handle the defense of the Manor. No, if Clint was honest with himself, his discomfort was an itch in the middle of his back he couldn’t scratch and didn’t make logical sense. 

“We’re ready,” Philip said as Clint dropped in beside him on the trail. “We’re taking five fighters with us and two horses with supplies.” They couldn’t spare more; Clint had been insistent on leaving enough men back at the manor in case this was a feint to lure them away, and Philip had agreed. Mayor Garrett had set about checking the town defenses even before they departed at an ungodly hour of the morning.

“It’s probably a good day and a half from here if you take it easy.” Knowing Melinda, she’d refuse to take a slower pace and they’d make it in less than that. “The Inn’s not defensible. Find a better place to stay …”

“Clint, I know what I’m doing,” Philip broke in calmly. “You could just say that you’re worried.”

“At least take Jessica with you.” Clint was doggedly determined.

“You need her more than we do. One hundred of them to your thirty, Clint. I should be arguing you out of it.” Philip reached over and brushed his fingers along Clint’s arm. A warm flow of energy spread from the touch; he’d been doing that since late yesterday and Clint was becoming more than a little addicted to the jolt. Gods, but they hadn’t had any time to talk at all, not since yesterday morning in bed. Clint had no idea what had happened with Loki, nor could they get into it here on the road. When Natasha had told him about Loki’s overture, seen by Garrett no less, Clint had wanted to find the Prince and put an arrow in his eye. Now, Loki and Sif plus four Asgardian warriors were part of this battle plan; how did things get so turned upside down? Clint wasn’t even sure that Loki was his enemy anymore, maybe just a man who liked to cause mischief and was jealous that Clint had lucked into the best prize, one Philip Coulson.

“I don’t plan on a frontal assault,” Clint assured him. “Defense is the best offense. We’ll get there and establish the perimeter. Sif has some ideas on how to effectively take out these living dead.”

“And you trust her?” Philip asked, the question reminding Clint of their discussion last night, no, two nights ago. It took a crisis to make him realize just how much he depended upon this man.

“No, but I believe she wants to learn how to defeat these things. That I can use.” He looked at Philip’s face, the tightening of his lips that signaled unease. “There’s only four people I trust right now to have my back. Nat, Carol, Jess … and you.”

A shadow lifted from Philip’s eyes, and he relaxed a little. “We’ll be fine, so you don’t have to waste time thinking about us. Focus on your own skin and don’t get yourself killed. I was kind of looking forward to having more time together,” Philip said, voice pitched low so the others couldn’t hear. Bruce was behind them, and he’d dropped back a bit to give them more privacy.

“Phil,” Clint turned, his horse dancing a little closer. “I plan on being around a long time; don’t worry.”

“Worry is what I do.” Phil shrugged. His fingers found Clint’s thigh for a light graze.

“Besides,” Clint continued, feeling a rush of heat that settled into his groin, his cock stirring. “I did promise to show you how to ride double. And I keep my promises.”

A flush crept up Philip’s cheeks as he remembered their conversation at the exhibition. “There are people around.”

“We can ride ahead to scout the trail.” He leaned over until he could whisper in Philip’s ear. “I want to be inside you right now.”

“Clint,” Philip almost choked on his name. “That’s not helping matters.”

“I don’t know, the thought of you riding me helps take my mind off how tired I am and how much I want to dump Loki in a ravine.” Clint was close enough to see the way Philip’s breathing quickened. The road narrowed as they wound down the side of a hill; McCarter Hall was on the outer edge of Barton Hold, in the foothills. The road wasn’t the easiest even in good weather. As they rode two abreast, the trees hedged them in and Clint lost sight of the rest of the men for a brief moment.

They came in silence, striking not the head of the column, but the vulnerable middle. A man, clothed in moldy leathers, lunged for Clint. Two skeletal figures moved faster than anyone would imagine they could, reaching for Melinda and catching at her skirts. Three of the biggest wolves Clint had ever seen burst from the other side of the road and lunged for the horses’ legs. Lucky danced sideways, bumping into Lola; both horses were trained for combat and lashed out with their hooves. Swinging his elbow, Clint knocked his attacker back and spurred Lucky forward, riding the few feet to where the trail widened and turned. Shouting a warning to the others, he grabbed his bow and strung it, years of practice making the action quick and automatic. By the time he had an arrow notched and turned around, Philip’s swords were out; he smacked a skeletal figure with the flat of one blade then the other. Bones splintered and its arm flew off, sword flying into the tree line. Lola turned and kicked out with her back legs; the bones rattled and scattered as the revenant staggered back.

“You stop that,” Melinda shouted. “You hear me?” Wargs snapped at her heels, and she swung her small dagger in an arch, drawing a long line of blood across one’s snout. Its teeth caught the edge of her yellow riding skirt, ripping long shreds of material as it tried to yank her off her horse. Andrew was trying to get to her; his horse reared up in fear, nostrils flared. Behind them, Bruce wheeled around, a small mace in his hand, smashing anything within reach.

The pull of the string centered Clint, and he calmed enough to hear the music, to tap into it and wrap it around the arrow before he let fly, the point burying itself in between a warg’s eyes. Another one took the dead wolf’s place, a group of four circling Bruce, Melinda and Andrew, taking turns darting in to slash with their claws and nip with their teeth. A revenant targeted Clint; he shot it, but the arrow didn’t do more than slow it down. Rising in the stirrups, Clint swung his bow, knocking it backwards a few steps, but its sword caught his calf, drawing blood before Lucky turned away.

“Take the wargs, I’ll cover you,” Philip said as he rode the attacker down, trampling it under Lola’s hooves. “There’s too many of them.”

It was an intricate dance, Philip weaving back and forth to keep the others from getting to Clint, Clint moving constantly for the best shots. Just when Clint thought they were making headway, more wargs came out of the trees; three surrounded Melinda, and one sank his teeth into her ankle. She screamed and slashed at it, but she was already off-balance and sliding towards the ground. 

“Melinda!” Clint heard the distant shout of Richard McCarter coming up behind him, but there was no time to stop her from going down into the sea of gnashing teeth and sharp claws. Clint fired at any target he could get – legs, torsos – earning some yelps of pain. 

“I’ve got you.” Andrew stretched from his seat, craning over to catch Melinda’s sash then the back of her dress, pulling her back into her saddle. He gave her palfrey a slap on the rump; it jumped and broke through the line of attackers, Melinda barely holding on as it raced past Clint and Philip’s position, both of them parting to let her ride through and on to safety. But even as Andrew tried to pull himself upright, a warg jumped, biting down in his arm and using its weight to drag him to the ground. Flailing, Andrew disappeared in a sea of fur, delighted yips and growls as they pounced.

“Cover me.” Philip was spurring his horse before Clint could tell him what a stupid idea it was, riding right into the middle of the pack. A cold pit of fear settled in Clint’s chest as wargs turned and lunged for Philip, swelling up inside him; instead of shoving it down, Clint reached for it and it flared like a fanfare, tempo increasing in the tune, spreading out to his arms and hands, settling into his muscles. Everything fell away, his eyes sharp and clear; arrow after arrow he sent winging into the fray, each on a perfect hit, and the wargs dropped, one by one, clearing a path for Philip to Andrew. Dipping in the saddle, Philip caught Andrew’s bloody hand and swung him up before him. Slumping over, Andrew lay limply along Lola’s neck; a silence fell as Bruce finished off the last attacker.

 “We need to get out of here,” Clint told Philip. “They know we’re here. Stealth isn’t an option, so now it’s a race.”

“His wounds need tending,” Philip argued, nodding towards Andrew. “Even if we ride hard it’s still a good few hours until we’d get to the Crossroads.”

“No. We’re all going to McCarter Hall.” Clint turned to Carol as she rode up to them; she’d been further ahead. The fight had been so short, she hadn’t had time to aid them. “No stopping. Do what you can for him as we go.  We’re better off together.”

“Clint!” Jessica rode into the clearing, bringing up the last of the fighters. She took the whole scene in with a glance. “We got ten more of these things coming up behind us; they’ll be on us in minutes.”

Curse the gods, but this was just getting worse. “Carol, put Melinda in the middle of her sons and get the rest of the troop on the road. Phil, take Andrew and go with them. See what you can do, but don’t look back. Jessica and I will buy you time.”

“Clint,” Philip objected. “You’re almost out of arrows.” He didn’t have to say it; Clint could feel the wash of energy from his husband, the fear and concern. The warmth blasted into Clint, giving him a jolt.

“Let me take him,” Loki offered. He, Sif, and his men were just beyond Carol. “I can work on him as we ride. Sleipnir will be happy to bear her favorite groomsman.”

“And I will stay with you,” Sif said, urging her horse next to Clint. “We can catch up with the others after we are victorious.”

Clint had only a quick glance with Philip before he nodded. “Pass Andrew over, Phil, and get the hell out of here. Carol, you’re in charge.”

“No need,” Bruce spoke and Clint, for the first time, really looked at the clerk. Green sparked in his normally brown eyes, sworls of color running down his neck as he breathed hard. “I’ll stay.”

“Bruce,” Philip began.

A howl sounded, coming around the curve; Bruce slid off his horse and tossed the reins to Clint. “Don’t worry. I’ll find you.” Within steps, the man changed, tossing off his quiet demeanor and shrugging out of his body as easily as unhooking a cloak. Clint could feel the magic stir the air as Bruce grew larger, a growl coming from his barrel chest as he thumbed his fists together.

“Berserker,” Carol breathed quietly. To most, a berserker was only a legend, stories of warriors of such passion and anger that whole legions fell beneath their swords. Clint, however, had met one before, an animal of a man who was as lethal as a warg, savage but with a moral compass that kept him from becoming a monster.

“Go!” Bruce rumbled as three wargs charged into sight.

“This will be fun,” Sif said, jumping off her horse and walking up to Bruce, sword at the ready.

“I should …” Clint started to follow suit, but Carol nudged Lucky with her own horse.

“You should lead the rest of us to safety.  I have a feeling they’ll be on our trail the whole way if they’re not already waiting for us,” she suggested.

No matter how much Clint wanted to stand and fight, he wasn’t the leader of a company of warriors anymore. He had to think about more than just his own thirst for retribution. Reeling in his anger, he turned and rode away, leaving the woman in armor and the clerk turned berserker behind him.

They rode like the devil himself was on their heels, pushing their horses to their limits. Despite her injury, Melinda kept up, saying not a word of complaint, just growing paler; she’d bandaged her leg herself and the best they could hope was to get to the hall in time to heal it. Andrew was in and out of consciousness, Loki doing what he could. Howls followed them, mixed sometimes with roars. Clint tried not to dwell on it, but he kept seeing Andrew falling and Bruce changing, his people, all of them, in danger from something beyond human. What he wanted was answers, but all he had were more questions, jumbled with no rational explanation.  He’d almost convinced himself that this was about finding some artifact, the one the bandits seemed intent on locating. How the object was related to revenants, dead animated bodies, and wargs, Clint didn’t know.  Neither the McCarter holding nor the Crossroads were places the bandits had searched, so Clint couldn’t see a connection there. And the bandits had definitely been alive, if controlled by magic. There was that at least … magic. Magic to compel men to do a sorcerer’s bidding. Magic to bring the dead to life. Magic to control creatures.

He forced himself not to steal too many glances at Philip; the blood on his hands reminded Clint how easily it could be Philip’s own, not Andrew’s.  Dwelling on Philip’s presence – and the fact that he was supposed to be heading the other direction to aid the wounded not riding right into the heart of the oncoming battle – wasn’t helping.  Gods, but this was not a problem he foresaw before the marriage. Clint had worried about mutual dislike or antipathy, lack of trust or desire; he’d never imagined this protective urge that smothered his senses and changed the way he made decisions. He didn’t want Philip in danger or hurt; in fact, Clint would love to have Philip waiting for him back at the manor, safe and sound. That fantasy sidetracked his mind for a few minutes – Philip in bed, a roaring fire, maybe a hot bath after a difficult battle – and Clint knew Natasha would cuff his ears if she knew he was wishing for a husband who counted the minutes until he returned.  Philip was an experienced fighter, and the manor wasn’t always a safe place as everyone had learned two years ago, Clint knew. It was just that something so domestic, someone who cared enough to worry, someone who wanted Clint in his bed … that was more than Clint ever thought he might have.

Sif caught up with them just after they crossed over into McCarter land. Even with Bruce riding behind her, his exhausted face ashen as he held on tight to Sif’s waist, Sif’s horse ran fast enough to find them. She was grinning, blood on her swords and sweat on her face, and she insisted Bruce ride with her the rest of the way. Thirty minutes out, they met a rider barreling at full-speed in the opposite direction, one of the younger grandsons, no more than fourteen, sent to bring a message to Barton Hall that a force was approaching. The hold, he said, was preparing, the women and children being trundled off to safety while the men manned the battlements. Relief showed on all the faces when they finally rode through the palisades and into the main grounds of the hall; the Laird took charge, shouting orders. Clint spared a moment to see Philip down from this horse, share a quick touch, and then there was a siege to prepare for.

* * *

 

“Put him down on that bed,” Philip ordered the two young men carrying Andrew. A fire blazed in cellar hearth, pots of water already heating, and shelves filled with various herbs and medicines.  Behind them, Melinda’s daughter, Nell, was helping her mother settle into a chair and elevate her mangled ankle onto a stool.

“Nell, dear, run and get the broken bone kit before you go. I think it’s in the solar where we set little Fannie’s arm last month,” Melinda said. “Get Jamie and Bryce to start bringing more beds for the wounded. We’ll use this area for triage.”

As the woman left, Philip got his first good look at Andrew’s wounds and his heart fell.  Loki’s magic had kept Andrew from bleeding out, but the damage to his body was overwhelming. His whole left arm was chewed up, long gouges in his midsection, and both legs were flayed down to the bone in two places.  With a restless moan, Andrew tried to open his bloodshot eyes.

“Melinda?” He asked weakly.

“All good,” she pertly replied, starting to rise. One of the men, clearly a relation judging from his facial features, put a hand on her shoulder.

“The Laird told us to guard you, even from yourself,” he said. Melinda shot him a perfectly chilling mother’s gaze.

“Benjamin Beecher, I am your mother, and I can still whip you if need be.” She scowled, but stayed seated; Philip hadn’t missed the grimace of pain as she put weight on her foot.

“I agree with the lad, my dear.” Loki swept in the room, looking as if he’d just had a leisurely ride, not a hell bent chase through the countryside. “I shall work on our Andrew here. Sleipnir will pout if he is not there to brush her mane.”

Bruce slouched in, exhaustion writ on his every movement, hanging back by the door, eyes taking in the room. He made a move towards Philip, but stopped, waiting for permission.

“Bruce,” Philip nodded the clerk’s way. “We’ll need to make up a poultice for Warg infections. The Prince said he knew the ingredients?”

“Indeed. A fairly simple one will work for wounds like Lady McCarter’s; we just need a few odds and ends.  Make a basic puncture wound salve, but add charcoal powder and Echinacea oil.  Have them bring down potatoes and sprinkle a slice with mustard, charcoal and Echinacea. Makes a good emergency treatment if they need to wait.” Loki bent over Andrew’s body, peeling back strips of fabric, slicing away his pants with his dagger.

Still hesitating, Bruce glanced at Philip.

“Oh for heaven’s sake, boy,” Melinda said, much more gently than the words belied. “You’re not the first berserker we’ve had around these parts, although you’re the most unexpected, I give you that. Gods, you should have met Old Willie Frasier; the man went off to fight for the king and came back one stubborn son-of-a-bitch with an attitude problem. Still, right handy fellow to have in a fight.”

That got a tentative smile from the clerk; he stepped out of the way to let Nell into the room, and then headed for the shelves to begin working.  Philip took the basket from Nell’s hands and knelt by the stool.  For a few moments, they were all busy with their tasks, Philip cleaning Melinda’s wound and finding, thank the gods, that her ankle bone was intact, just wrenched muscle. Bruce brought over the first batch of the poultice, Nell having run off to the kitchen for supplies. 

“Philip, if you please, I may need your help,” Loki said, voice pitched low as Melinda made plans with Nell and the two men to establish an infirmary for the coming battle. Andrew was sweating, each touch of Loki’s long fingers making him thrash in pain; Philip didn’t see how the groom could survive the extent of the damage done.  “He resists the healing. A man’s will is a strong impediment; tell him he has worth, that he needs to live. Or else I cannot aide him.”

Dropping to his knees by the bed, Philip took Andrew’s untouched hand, squeezed lightly and leaned over to brush a bloody mat of hair from the man’s face. “Andrew,” he called. Only a moan greeted his words. “Andrew.”

“Phil,” Andrew drawled, lengthening the short word. His normally intelligent eyes were dulled with pain.

“Are you going to stay with us?” Philip heard the tiny sigh that Andrew made, a hopeless sound. “We need you.  You’re part of the company; we depend upon you.”

“Third …. Wheel.” He coughed up blood and had to catch his breath. A cool wind blew along Andrew’s chest, but Philip didn’t look away from Andrew’s face.  “All I know.”

“You’re more than that,” Philip promised. “Besides, I thought you wanted to prove me wrong. What happened to showing me up?”

That earned him a choked laugh. “Hated you a bit, yeah.”

“I’m expecting you to be running the stables in less than a year.” Loki was working on Andrew’s legs now, the stirring of power strong and certain. “And arguing with me about how to do it.”

“Even after?” Andrew’s eyes began to sag, his body relaxing as Loki’s spells eased his pain.

“Men have needs,” Philip shrugged. “It was before I had any right to have a say.”

“You make it hard … to dislike you,” Andrew whispered. “Can we buy some Asgardian horses?”

He slipped into sleep, his breathing deepening. “Best if he is not awake for this part,” Loki said, burrowing his hand into the deepest claw marks along Andrew’s stomach. “Keep hold of his hand and put two fingers on his forehead.” Hesitating, Philip looked askance at the Prince. “Yes, yes, I know. You don’t trust me, and well you shouldn’t. I could easily be a villain for all you know.  Yet I would show you how to draw the infection out. In cases like this one and the tinkers, you’ll need more than a salve and a bandage.”

Pressing the tip of his pointer and middle fingers in the center of Andrew’s forehead, Philip felt the circuit close, the cold gust of Loki’s magic blowing through him. Carefully keeping his own magic at bay, he focused in on the energy, the way it flowed, how it found the low spots and filled them. Coldness met edges of raw flesh and turned them to a freezing liquid that ran together, bringing Andrew’s body back together.  Philip watched the changes, equated them with the rise and fall of magic, and began to have an inkling of how it worked. Then he saw it, a pocket of darkness that pulsed like a shadow heart, beating with a different time.

“What’s that?” He asked, the scholar in him fascinated.

“An echo of the original caster. Our warg friends are not in this battle of their free will.” Loki reached for the pocket, casting out a frigid tendril; the darkness recoiled, tried to escape, but Loki surrounded it and pulled it free, freezing it and crushing it as he lifted it up. “You have the right of it, Philip. Trust no one, least of all me. There are forces at work beyond anything you’ve known.”

Loki’s bloody hand covered Philip’s, both their fingers touching Andrew, and Philip shivered at the blast of arctic chill that ran up his arm. His whole body shook, and he yanked away, breaking the connection as Loki’s bowed his head over Andrew, tired from his labor.

“He will need watching; I can only heal him to a point.” Loki brushed off his leather pants. “He is out of danger so I will go.”

Philip pushed up and stood; he felt Loki’s eyes following him as the Prince left, and he couldn’t shake the ball of ice that settled next to his heart.

“He’s a piece of work, is he not?” Melinda broke the silence. Philip eyebrows shot up as he looked at her. “What? He’s a charming devil, but slick with words and a manipulative little shit. Just because he’s handsome doesn’t mean I can’t see that; he looks fair, and I certainly know what that means. Whatever he’s said, believe the opposite. And trust Clint. He’s a good man.”

“If I preferred women, I’d fight Richard for you.” Philip wanted to hug the woman; he’d needed to hear that very common sense advice. “Bruce, you need sleep.  We can handle this; lie down and get some rest. I have a feeling we’re going to need all hands we can get.”

* * *

 

Clint took the glass of whiskey and sipped it as he looked over their plans one last time. Richard McCarter knew his lands intimately, including the best perches for archers.  Impressive; Clint hoped one day he’d be as good a leader of his people as Richard. If they had time, they could mount an iron tight defense; even as it was, they could hold off a large number of attackers from house on top of the headland. The meeting in the Laird’s study had been more “yes, sir” than discussion, but Clint was adamant about using his company to the best of their abilities. Carol was in charge of the Southern defense along the main road, Jessica manning a fast strike team, and Clint in a perfect position on top of the women’s tower. Sif and her warriors were to hold the Northern side, the Prince staying with the Lairds.

“You should rest,” Philip said from the doorway. Shutting the door, he crossed the room and sat down a tray with a bowl of fragrant stew and some bread. “At least eat.”

“Are you my nursemaid now?” The question was sharper than Clint intended it to be; he exhaled and tried again. “Not that I don’t need one. It’s just … a long day. How is Andrew? Melinda’s probably running the show, I imagine.” He picked up the spoon and dipped it into the savory broth.

“She’s got the whole cellar set up as a healing ward. Her daughter is staying too; they both refuse to go with the others. The King should recruit Melinda; she could run the kingdom and everyone would love her.” Philip leaned against the desk. “Andrew’s out of the woods, but it’s going to be a long recovery.”

“Loki?” Clint saw the way Philip stiffened slightly at the name.

“The man has a talent for getting under your skin, doesn’t he?” Philip was tense, his energy leaking over into Clint.  “He needs watching, Clint. I can’t help but think he’s part of all this, more than we know. He warned me not to trust him.”

“Playing both sides, our Prince,” Clint agreed. He’d been thinking the exact same thing. “Working my lack of trust, trying to seduce you, being helpful, charming people … manipulation, plain and simple. Question is, what does he want? And what’s his role in all this?”

“I was thinking about it on the ride here and can’t make sense of it. When he offered for me, he couldn’t know I would end up married to you; all the bandits and attacks and searches centered in your holding, so there’s no connection.” Philip rested weight on his hands and jiggled his foot; Clint bumped his knee against Philip’s. 

“Don’t worry, between Carol, Jessica and I, we plan to keep Loki in our sights.” Clint had already discussed the very thing with his thanes. 

“I should be with you. Bruce can handle the healing,” Philip resisted.

“You’re our last line of defense, Phil; we need to play to your strengths. The cellar has a passageway that leads into a series of caves; you’re the guard of the doorway that’s our escape route.” Clint certainly hoped it didn’t come to that, but he knew he trusted Philip to keep the way open.

“I know, it’s just …” Philip closed his eyes and huffed out in his exasperation. “I’m finding it hard to remain … detached, objective. Emotion clouds judgment in battle, and I’m compromised.”

Clint waited, let Philip spin out his words, sentiments that echoed with his own feeling. He, too, was finding it increasingly impossible to not let his heart influence his decisions.

“I never imagined I’d come to care for you like this.” Philip practically hid his face as he admitted it, ducking his chin towards his chest and turning his eyes on anything but Clint’s face. “You distract me, Clint.”

“The feeling is mutual,” Clint admitted, glad to get it off his chest now, before it was too late. In any skirmish, no matter how small, there was always the element of risk. “If I could talk you into staying back at the manor, I would have. Doesn’t make sense; I’ve seen you fight and know you’re capable of defending yourself. It’s just a rock in my gut telling me to keep you safe.”

“I think, though, we’re stronger together. Sharing.” Philip took Clint’s hand and the warmth built between them. “And that’s an advantage others won’t have.”

“You’re right.” Clint sat down his bowl and turned, facing Phil, nudging his legs apart, stepping between them, and leaning down, resting his hands on the desk on top of Philip’s. Clint knew he’d never be able to sleep, too keyed up to relax, but there were other ways that were more enticing. “Sif said something about how Loki wasn’t ready for us. She might have a point.”

He dipped his face and nuzzled the spot on Philip’s neck that always made him sigh. The slightest breath across Philip’s ear and Philip’s eyes drifted closed, shoulders dropping as he exhaled. It was addicting, the feel of Philip’s skin beneath his lips, and Clint felt immediately better, more energized as he dragged his tongue along the sworls of Philip’s ear. He pressed Philip, tracing the line of muscle that ran down his neck, nipping lightly before starting along the jawline where dark brown scruff scratched Clint’s cheek. When he finally got to Philip’s mouth, Clint drifted along the bottom lip, pulling it into his mouth and sucking on it until Philip squirmed, lifting his hands to circle around Clint’s waist and cling to him. Tilting him back just a bit more, Clint brought their hips in alignment and started a slow, easy slide.

“The door isn’t locked and should we really be doing this?” Philip asked, voice husky with desire; Clint was busy leaving a mouth sized bruise on the underside of his chin.

“Don’t care. This is better than sleep. Can you feel it? Like a strong cup of coffee.” Hands clasped Philip’s hips and tugged him tighter; Clint’s half- aroused cock nestled next to Philip’s, grinding together .

“You’re comparing me to coffee?” Philip asked with a laugh that turned to a moan as Clint ran his hand along Philip’s thigh and hiked Philip’s leg around his waist.

“Yes, and that’s a compliment. It gives me energy, keeps me going, and I can’t live without it.” He watched the startled look chase across Philip’s eyes as they darkened with pleasure.

“Gods, Clint,” he groaned as he drew Clint in for another kiss, more involved and insistent. They kissed, holding each other as if this was their last moment, bodies rubbing together until Clint could stand it no longer. Dropping to his knees, he untied the laces of Philip’s pants, freed his swollen cock, and licked the flushed head. He looked up as he took the full length in his mouth, reveling in the weight and the fullness of it, and saw the bliss on Philip’s face.

Holding onto Philip’s hips, Clint pulled back long enough to say, “Put your hands on my head.”

The warmth of Philip’s palms matched the heat coming from Clint’s fingers where he touched the bare skin along Philip’s hip bones, and the music started, strong and sure. As he took Philip’s cock back in his mouth, the melody became more than just notes and chords, swelling into movements and themes that repeated and mixed together in different parts and harmonies.  Clint opened himself to it all, this song that was their own, the taste of Phil, the way his own cock grew heavier with need. Hands and mouth and then their eyes caught and it was like a funnel of pure energy flowed and built inside him. The clenching of Philip’s muscles warned him as much as the way Philip’s fingers clenched into his hair, then the salty bitter taste flooded his mouth, and he swallowed, nursing Phil through his orgasm.

He rose while Philip still had his eyes closed and leaned in for the lightest of kisses; despite the urgent reminders from his own cock, twitching with need, Clint was riding the music, and it was more than a physical need now.  As much as he wanted to straddle Philip’s leg and grind himself along the strong muscle of his thigh – which he did -- Clint wanted to wrap Philip up in his arms and let the rush of the notes carry them along to the crescendo.  But fingers fumbled with Clint’s laces and then Philip’s whole hand circled him, thumb sweeping up the leaking liquid, and they rushed the finale, Philip stroking Clint’s hard length in time to the rhythm of the song. Clint was gone when the melodies crashed together, becoming one theme that swelled and released. 

“Tell me you heard that?” Clint asked. Surely, Philip had felt it, the way Philip’s magic made Clint’s so much more.

“I’d say everyone heard it, but I don’t seem to have destroyed anything, so maybe not.” Philip laughed, his lips against Clint’s, the words flowing into his mouth.

“Clint, Johnson has an idea about a floating battering ram that he wants to hang up outside the kitchen shed … Oh, oh, okay, oh, I’m closing my eyes, oh.” Jessica turned her back and shut the door firmly, still sputtering. “The door wasn’t locked, I didn’t know, I’m sorry. Oh, bugger, Clint, you could use a room, you know.”

“Tell Johnson to run with it. Anything blunt force will work better than sword point. Just don’t waste time; if it doesn’t work, move on.” Clint rested his forehead on Philip’s and grinned, enjoying the blush that flooded his husband’s face and, for once, throwing Jessica off. “I’ll be with you in a few minutes. And make sure everyone gets something to eat. The stew’s good.”

“Right. I’ll just …. Let myself out.” She fled the room as Clint dropped a kiss on Philip’s nose.

“That was better than a nap,” Clint said, loathe to let go. “You can help me rest anytime.”

Philip held Clint’s face steady for one last long kiss. “Stay alive. I’m getting used to having you around.”

“If you get yourself hurt, I’ll be very upset. Might have to tie you down and keep you all to myself.”  He pushed back with great effort. 

“Go on.” Philip’s hand slipped away and Clint felt the loss, but he was still buoyed up by the energy. “I’ll be here.”

Clint went to check on the preparations, humming a nameless tune under his breath.

* * *

 

The waiting was the worst. Clint could sit patiently for hours for a perfect shot, but he didn’t like it. Thinking of everything that could go wrong, having to focus for long periods of time … no, waiting was as much a part of warfare as the actual battle itself and strong men broke under the strain of not knowing when the fight was going to begin.  Walking along the top of the women’s tower, a corner section of the hall with the best view of the surrounding area, Clint paced back and forth, making William and Theodore shrink down when he passed the spot they’d chosen to hunker down behind the wall. From here, he had eyes on Carol’s forces, staked out along the outer palisade, and Jessica’s spread along the back curve of the fortification. He could see Sif and the other Asgardians patrol their section, and the Laird’s men growing as restless as Clint felt. An occasional howl reached his ears, forewarning the arrival of their adversaries.

McCarter Hall was a sprawling complex of wings built off the oldest part of the structure, the main hall. Generation after generation had added on as they needed room and most of the family still lived within the thick stone walls. The bailey housed most of the usual buildings – blacksmith, armory, kitchen, stables – with a tall wooden defensive wall enclosing the grounds. Cotholds and cottages were scattered about further away, but most of the hold’s necessities were inside or could be moved there in times of emergency, like now. The rest were farther flung, shepherd huts and farmers and craftsmen who chose to live in the hills; the Laird had sent a warning out to them as well, but most hunkered down in their own homes with whatever protection they already had. Of those close by, the elderly men, too old to fight, had joined the women and children down in the caves that ran beneath the tor, accessed through twisting passages that would be impossible to navigate unless someone knew exactly which turns to take.

He looked at the rest of the roof, the archers in their places behind the crenellations, and checked one more time the guard manning the towers on the palisades. Then he turned his eyes to the east, scanning in the distance for movement; calming his mind, he took a deep breath and expanded further, bringing the trees into sharp focus. Leaves swayed in the wind, the temperature cooler near the mountains, and he saw low bushes shake as a grey haired form slunk through the branches. As if it could sense Clint, glowing blue eyes lifted and looked right at him, nose sniffing the air. They were coming and coming fast.

“Teddy, spread the word. Half an hour,” Clint ordered. Theodore jumped up and ran along the walkway, telling everyone as he went. The boys were the only means of communication Clint had; his perch might be an advantage, but he still had to get the information to the others.  During their years traveling, Clint had made habit of rescuing kids and putting them to work; fast and agile, they’d gotten messages through in even the toughest of situations. William had once managed to cross a square filled with rioting sailors in record time to warn Clint about an angry rival who was going to take advantage of the chaos to take his revenge. And if he happened to save them from a far worse fate, well Clint wasn’t all that kind-hearted, not really.

When the attack came, it was swift and brutal. Wargs burst from the tree line, charging forward; they bunched their hind legs to spring up and over the heads of the men on the wall.  Carol was ready, however, and a volley of crossbow bolts cut through the pack. Troops hit the palisade, some of the literally crawling hand over hand to get to the top. From the other side, Clint heard a shout and turned in time to see a smaller groups attacking at regular intervals around the wall, engaging all of the defenders and keeping everyone busy repelling them. Clint’s world narrowed down to the end of his arm, his outstretched fingers and the sharp tip of the arrowhead as he targeted mostly wargs, taking them out before they could do any damage. As soon as one quiver ran dry, William handed him another, and Clint kept going.  It seemed they were holding them off, each new wave repulsed. Carol powered through any that got inside the wall, Jessica’s fighters were strung out into strategic locations, smashing hands and heads as they tried to come over the top.  Sif’s fighting was a thing of beauty; Clint caught only quick glimpses as she moved faster than even Natasha. Despite their larger numbers, Clint began to think they had a real chance of holding them off for good.

A loud crack and then a crash as the outer gates burst open; how, Clint didn’t know, and he didn’t have time to think about it. The moldy and decaying bodies darted through, almost overwhelming Carol’s position. Laird McCarter came around the corner and swept down upon them, swinging his two-handed claymore and severing head after head. The bodies dropped, unmoving, once their spines were severed.  Behind Clint, the revenants and wargs doubled their attempts to break the wall, pressing them all to their breaking point. Clint kept firing, barely aiming at all, still hitting each target; his arrows did little against the men who weren’t men anymore, but he did the best he could. A large trunk of a tree swung across the now open gateway, clearing a path through the attackers, scattering the undead and knocking the giant wolves aside. Johnson’s device worked on the return swing as well before he cranked it back and let it fly again, the force of the heavy object doing more damage than the edge of a sword. 

A flash of color caught Clint’s eye near a side entrance of the house through Melinda’s rose garden. Familiar black hair gleamed and black leather clad arm opened the door, stepping back to allow the revenants and wargs access. Notching an arrow, Clint stared down the line of sight just as Loki looked up at him and grinned, arching an eyebrow and nodding. Loki was double crossing them; he was letting wargs loose in the house, and he was inviting Clint to come get him.

“Tell Carol that they’re in the house,” Clint ordered Theodore who’d returned from his earlier errand. “William, find Philip to warn him. Be careful; the wargs have a heightened sense of smell. You have my permission to take any route to stay safe.”  Throwing the trapdoor open, Clint swung William down until he caught the ladder and scrambled away. Clint followed, sliding rather than using the rungs as Theodore ran off across the roof. Taking the stairs two at a time, Clint didn’t bother to hide the noise he was making, hoping to draw attention to himself and away from Billy who had darted into the upper solarium. Clint skidded as he turned a corner and ran the length of the family wing, straining to hear any sounds that might give away where the others were. Running, he hit the landing above the main hall and came to a stop; Loki stood where the musicians usually performed, waiting.  Three wargs growled, at heel beside Loki’s lanky form; down below, undead fighters fanned out into the different hallways, searching for prey.

“I tried the nice way,” Loki said, the sadness of his voice marred by the glee in his eyes. “But we’ve come to this and, I must say, I don’t exactly mind. You vex me, Clinton Barton and I will have done with you.”

Clint trained his arrow on a spot between one warg’s eyes.  He could maybe take two before the third got to him.  “I win the bet; you’re evil. Still, I have to wonder how your mother feels about it.”

“My life is none of your business. You trespassed on what should have been mine.” Loki’s eyes narrowed, but Clint caught a flicker of uncertainty. “Speak not of my mother.”

“Okay, how about Sif? Is she in on this with you? Your right hand in madness?” Clint pushed, looking for a crack in Loki’s demeanor to exploit.

“The Lady Sif is beyond reproach, far too noble to do what must be done to protect our people,” Loki spat, growing angry. “I, on the other hand, will do what’s necessary.”

“Including killing innocent people and calling the dead from their graves? That’s sorcerer territory, Loki.” Maybe Clint’s best bet was to aim for the Prince himself, a sacrifice play to end this.

Loki composed himself and turned cold again. “Just call Philip and we can get this over with quickly. I won’t promise it will be painless, but I can make it fast.”

“Um, no.” Clint didn’t flinch as the wargs stepped closer. “Always been about getting your hands on him, hasn’t it? I bet it burns you inside that you missed out.”

“I thought it a waste of such power … until I met you. The two of you together will serve nicely for my purposes.” He reached out his sword, tip pointing towards Clint’s chest. A sickly green light began to gather at the hilt and spread outward. “Now, call him and let’s be done.”

“He’s not within hearing distance,” Clint pointed out. “I can shout all I want and he won’t hear me.”

“You are such fools who know nothing.” The green energy shot out; Clint’s bow grew cold, so cold his skin froze and became numb. “Think of him, let him feel your terror and he’ll come.”

“Sorry. No terror here.” Clint tried to hold it but the bow slipped from the fingers he couldn’t feel anymore. “Not going to help you at all.”

“Fine. Make this difficult.” Loki nodded and the wargs bounded forward; Clint’s arms were sluggish and slow. Before he could move, teeth closed around his left forearm, and another set held his right calf, neither breaking the skin, just keeping him immobile.  “Pain will suffice.”

Clint heard the bones break in his forearm as the Warg closed its mouth. Bright red blood ran down his fingers and he fell to his knees when his leg gave out, agony from where the second wolf was chewing. He refused to lose consciousness, holding on to thwart Loki’s plan, to keep Philip safe. This was all about Philip; sure he was just a means to an end for the Prince, Clint wasn’t going to let him win. Drawing on the well of energy inside of him, Clint drove the pain into the distance. The handprints on his arm and chest flared to life, sending sparks running along his skin; the animals growled and backed off, shaking their snouts.

“Good. That should do the trick. He’ll come to save you, and I’ll have him as well.” Loki stepped closer, towering over Clint as he placing two fingers on Clint’s forehead.  “Radix malorum est cupidas.”

The song was a strident march in a minor key, and it swamped Clint, playing in his mind as it took over his body. Not a cold wind, a blizzard that whited out Clint’s vision and drowned out the joint song of Philip’s magic. He tried to scream, but the sound only echoed in his head, trapped by Loki’s magic.

“You’re mine now. And you’re going to find it for me.” Loki’s voice was inside Clint’s chest, bouncing around the hollow space.

“Clint!” Distant, barely heard in the onslaught, Philip’s voice called to him but Clint was slipping away. Even the heat of Philip’s marks were fading.

Then he heard it, a thin tune, barely more than a few notes, out of time and out of tune, but his. He focused on it and it grew stronger, adding a major harmony to the terrifying song Loki was weaving. Fingers flexed where they lay on his thigh, and Clint’s hand moved to the throwing dagger tucked into the top of his boot. It took every bit of strength he had, but he closed his palm around the hilt, let the song run along his arm and into the silver before he flipped it out and plunged it into Loki’s thigh.

“Son of a bitch,” Clint cursed as soon as he could breathe again without cold burning his throat. He twisted the blade, cutting close to the vein, hot blood splattering on his face. “You can’t have him.”

Loki fell back and grabbed at the wound; purple sparks engulfed his hand as he tried to yank out the knife. The wargs rushed in, but he waved them away with a word, bowed his head and shuddered. When he looked back up at Clint, his eyes were wide in shock, his face even paler.

“You have magic of your own. He didn’t foresee that either.” Loki sat on the floor and laughed, a rueful sound. From below, Clint heard footfalls and swords clanging; someone was coming. “For Odin’s sake, finish the bonding. That’s the only thing that will protect you. Find it before I do and use it against him.” Muscles in his face clenched, and Loki struggled to continue speaking. “Tell … Sif … I know how to access the treasure room … she needs to … stop me.”

His body shook violently, and he groaned, folding in on himself before he looked back up. An eerie blue glow filled his eyes and his face went blank. “He will get what he wants. With you or without you.”

With a gesture of his hand, Loki disappeared, leaving only a smear of blood and three very agitated wargs circling Clint. Closing his eyes, Clint fixed the image of Philip’s smile in his mind as he waited for them to pounce.

 


	12. Declarations and Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sif’s smile was genuine at their confusion. “Not common marriage vows, no. Have your people let the greatest of all power slip out of your memory? You’ve forgotten so much of what is real and made it fairytales. You, Clint Barton and Philip Coulson, are bonded souls, your lives entwined, your power exponential when shared.”
> 
> “B-b-bonded?” Philip stuttered the word. “That’s just a myth …”
> 
> Clint stared, his mind whirling, so many little details adding together to the impossible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry be so long between chapters. Finals week around here and I've got a ton of work to do. Probably why this chapter goes from angst to fluff. I needed a pick me up.

A heavy weight sat just under Philip’s collarbone, pressing down on his chest; he tried to expand his lungs, take a deep breath to ease the ache that was collecting. With each step as he checked with the pockets of guards stationed around the house, the sense of wrongness grew. He’d missed some detail, foreboding coloring his vision. Taking the stairs to the cellar two at a time, he caught up with a young boy helping a wounded man; together they got him settled on a cot so Nellie could begin working on his mangled hip.

“Philip.” William tugged at his sleeve, falling back into his heavily accented voice in his haste. “They’re in the house. Loki’s let ‘em in near the kitchen. Clint went after ‘em.”

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and the band across his chest tightened. Loki. He knew the Prince was going to make a play and this was the worst time. “We need to warn the others. I’ll take the main hall, William can run down to the Callan wing, and Jamie will head to the SouthTower.  Tell them to stay at their posts and be ready.”

“I’ll go with you,” Bruce offered. “If they came in by the kitchen, you’ll run right into them.”

“Someone needs to stay here.” Philip objected.

“We’ll be fine. Two men can hold the stairs, so imagine what we women can do,” Melinda said. She was hobbling around, refusing to stay off her foot.  “We’ll be gone before they get in here if they get that far.”

Philip had to agree; there was no time to spare. Checking his swords, he headed back up, the others at his heels.  At the top of the stairs, William darted off, Jamie the opposite direction, and Philip turned towards the main hall. The access to the cellar was in an older part of the house, and they had to thread their way through storage rooms and servant’s quarters before they hit a main hallway. As they turned towards the archway, they heard the clicking of nails on stone as paws scrabbled for purchase.  Three wargs raced across entranceway; one slowed and turned, blue glowing eyes catching sight of the two of them. With a bound, the oversized wolf charged; Philip pulled out his swords and rushed, catching it in mid lunge.  The sharp tip dug into the Warg’s soft underbelly, ripping it open from mouth to hind legs. Blood splattered across Philip’s arms as the creature yelped in pain before dropping to the floor.

“The others,” Bruce nodded and, sure enough, not only wargs but some of the undead fighters appeared, blocking their exit. “We can hold them better here.”

The hallway was wide enough for the two of them to stand abreast; the wargs were so big only one could make a pass at a time. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bruce draw his mace, swinging it absently in his hands as he prepared. Another warg took the lead, more wary than the first; Philip avoided the claws and snapping teeth long enough to plunge his swords under its chin, crossing them before he sheared them back out. Revenants came next; rusty steel clanged against their own weapons, loud enough to alert any others in the hall beyond. Bruce went for blows to the head; Philip slashed at throats as they fought their way forward.

The pain hit him like a bolt of lightning, skin burning on the side of his face and the curve of his hip. His leg gave out, sharp points of agony in his calf; along his left arm, red marks blossomed, instant bruises turned his skin purple. Falling back a step, Philip cried out as pain burrowed into his body, sapping at his strength.

“Clint,” he gasped. He couldn’t clear his head; shadows darted across his sight, images of glowing blue eyes and dark green tendrils engulfing him. Cold exploded in his chest, a frigid fire all its own. Energy flared and wrapped around him, urging him to move. “Something’s wrong.”

“Go.” Bruce stepped in front of them and pushed the two remaining fighters out into the hall. More poured from the doorway near the kitchen. “I’ve got this.”

He should argue, but Bruce was already changing, muscles growing. The smile he turned to Philip was just this edge of feral. He calmly caught up a warg that darted too near and tossed it against a wall; bones cracked and it sank to the floor, unmoving.

“Get to Clint.” Lower voice, irises gone wide and green, Bruce strode forward right into the middle of the attackers and laughed.

Putting his back to the fight, Philip ran, drawn to the stairs at the back of the hall that lead up to the second floor landing. He didn’t question the impulse, the pull too strong to ignore. At the top, he saw Clint, sprawled on the floor and bleeding, three wargs ripping into him with angry growls.

“No!” He didn’t think about, didn’t contemplate how or why or what would happen. His hand flew up and power poured out, a strong wind that blew the creatures away. Two twisted as they went, one hitting a suit of armor, the heavy metal collapsing on top of it. The top half of the second hit the edge of a pillar with a sickening sound as the bottom half tried to keep going. The third tumbled over the rail into the hall below with a yelp.  Sliding to his knees, he bent over Clint who was struggling to sit up.

“Phil. Loki. He’s …” Clint groaned and fell back into Philip’s waiting arms.

“I know. Billy found us. Stay with me, Clint. We’ll get you down to the infirmary and …” Philip ground to a halt as he took in the enormity of Clint’s wounds. His left arm was hanging useless, skin ripped and broken bone showing through the blood. But his leg was worse, turned at an odd angle, red pooling beneath the maimed calf. 

“Listen to me, Phil. He wants you. Needs your magic to find the thing. Using me to get to you and I …” Clint was fading, his skin draining of color. “I told him he couldn’t have you.”

“Loki won’t get me. You can remind him of that next time we meet,” Philip said.

“Not Loki. Loki’s just a pawn, someone else, stronger ….” Eyes drifted closed and Philip’s heart seized, stuttering in its rhythm as he felt for, and found, a very weak pulse.

A scuff of boot on stone came from behind him; Philip turned to find undead coming up the stairs and from another of the darkened archways. More than he could take on alone, he knew, but he eased Clint’s head down to the floor anyway and stood. At least he’d go out fighting, swords in hand, protecting Clint. Maybe someone else would find them in time to bind Clint’s wounds.

Wargs came from behind the revenants, two with reddened mouths, leaving bloody footprints in their wake. Philip let the power bubble up and out into his swords, using it for sustain him and to hit true as they attacked. Despite another yawning opening behind him, Philip kept himself between the wolves and Clint; clearing his mind, he let the years of lessons take over, moving through positions and defenses as he needed them, going on the offense when he could, dancing between opponents. For every blow that laid one low, it seemed two more took its place. Too many, but leaving Clint wasn’t an option.

A yelp from behind him and Philip saw a warg fall mid-leap, a small throwing dagger in its eye. Glancing back, he saw the blood trail where Clint had dragged himself up to lean against the wall. He held another dagger in his right hand, face a mask of concentration as he fought through what had to be agonizing motions to throw it.

A sword caught in his chainmail, digging into his side, dragging Philip’s attention back to the fight. Swinging his own sword, Philip drove it into the dead man’s half decayed chest and released the energy out into the riddled flesh. The stench of burning hit his nose and the revenant shook, eyes rolling back in his head before they cleared and stared straight at Philip.

“Help us,” he begged. “Stop this”

Insight flashed and Philip somehow knew what to do. Reaching out with his hand, he touched the revenant’s forehead and searched, looking deep inside for … there, the glowing blue of the spell, curled around the spinal column and down the neck. He grabbed it with his own energy and a frigid wave poured up his arm, crashed into Clint’s mark like surf against the rocks of a strong cliff, and then dissipated, leaving a black ball within his grasp that pulsed with evil. Tiny red lines latched onto Philip’s fingers and sank into his skin, sharp like a razor as they sliced him open. Still, he didn’t let go, turning his hand until the ball was in his palm and he could close his fist around it. Purple energy sparked and glowed as he slowly tightened his grip, crushing the sorcerer’s spell into dust.

“Thank you.”  The man crumpled to the floor, as did all the others around Philip, falling into disordered piles of bones and flesh in the blink of an eye. The wargs whined, cringed back and slunk away, finding the darkest shadows to cover their retreat.  For a moment, exhaustion hit him and Philip hung his head. Then he spun and dropped back down beside Clint.

Eyes glassy with pain, Clint’s chest rose and fell erratically, but he was still breathing.  Philip caught Clint’s right hand in his and brushed the hanks of sweaty hair away from Clint’s face. “I’m going to try to heal you. I need you to help me, like when we marked each other. Stay with me.”

With a deep breath, Philip lightly laid his fingers on Clint’s left arm and stretched out to touch Clint’s forehead. Closing his eyes, he felt the weight of Clint’s other hand settle on his hip; energy slipped out of Phil’s fingers and started to trickle into Clint, searching for the breaks and torn flesh, beginning to fill in the gaps. But it wasn’t the same as when Loki healed Andrew; something was off, the circle open, precious magic leaking out.  His head told him to try again, but his heart pulled his hand down and he splayed it on Clint’s chest, spreading his fingers under the chainmail choker.  Faint notes danced around the edge of Philip’s hearing and he reached for them.

He tried again; this time, the magic flowed easily and Philip could see a purple haze slide from his fingers to cover first the bleeding leg, the most dangerous of all Clint’s wounds.  Dipping further into himself, Philip poured as much energy as he could find, opening up pockets he’d never tapped before. He’d used so much already and, far too quickly, exhaustion crept up on him. The power faltered and Philip stretched for more, but there was nothing there but a few small pools. Clint’s heart slowed – Philip could feel each beat that stretched out under his fingers – and the music began to fade.

Warmth, a weight on his shoulder, and green filtered into his vision, mixing with the purple sparks, an anchor that Philip could hold onto as he went deeper than he had in years. Chasing the distant music, he let go of the physical and sank into his memories; he was nine, running up the road to Coulson Hall, holding in tears, unchecked magic trailing behind him in his fear. Terror, darkness, trapped in a small place, dirt falling on his face, boys laughing then a door had opened in his head and energy exploded. He remembered his grandfather’s anger, his mother’s quiet presence, his grandmother teaching him to shut it away and pretend he didn’t have any magic. Now, he reached for that space, locked and long unused; pushing off from Bruce’s lifeline, he battered through the door. Music burst out, flooding through the connection, the familiar brassy melody that was Clint becoming louder as Philip caught it in his hands and added a harmony of his own strings. Bruce was deeper, the bass underneath; power swelled as Philip kept going, pouring it all back into Clint.

A Darkness that leapt out and grabbed him by the throat, winding its red tentacles around the notes, infecting each one as it passed, tuning all to discord. Cold stabbed into Philip, cutting through the line that held him to Bruce, setting him adrift. He lost Clint’s music as he wrestled with the evil that tried to engulf him. Alone in the blackness, he twisted and turned, trying to throw the sorcerer’s power off, only succeeding in falling further and further away.  With one final attempt, Philip blasted all the energy he had left into the very heart of the thing, and it burned white with purple edges that shattered it into a thousand fragile shards.

Spent, Philip floated, too far to find his way back.

“Phil.” Clint’s voice. “Come back to me.”

A thready tune curled around him and he let it carry him up, turn him around, bring him back into the full throated music.  Words flitted in time, snatches of phrasing with a matching rhythm.

“A star for those who wander, worth more than any can measure.” Saying them out loud, Philip opened his eyes. Clint leaned over him, face smeared with blood and sweat, his stormy eyes filled with worry.

“You keep saying things like that,” he said, stroking his thumb down the side of Philip’s face. “One day, you can tell me why.”

“I would if I knew. I think they’re the lyrics to the music.” Gods, but Philip was so tired; it was impossible to keep his eyes from closing again.

“You’ve overtaxed yourself,” Bruce said. “Sleep is the best prescription for you.”

“Clint?” Philip struggled to stay focused. “Did I…?”

“I’m fine, better than good. Like new. You can rest now.” A quick brush of lips on his forehead, then strong arms lifted him up, and he was leaning against a familiar body.  Somehow his feet moved when Clint did, and he faded in and out on the short walk. A soft bed was underneath him and hands removed his chainmail and his boots, unbuckled his sword belt. Wet cloth, warm and gentle, washed his face and hands, his chest and his arms.

“Almost lost you,” Clint whispered, his forehead resting against Philip’s for a brief touch. “Don’t do that again. I need you.”

“Love you too,” Philip answered.

And then he fell into a dreamless sleep of an exhausted man.

* * *

 

“We’re low on Echinacea. I can send a rider down to the Widow Clemons’ for more if you think it safe,” Melinda said. She was enthroned in a large overstuffed chair by the main hall fireplace, holding court in a style that would put queens to shame. A constant flow of people were coming in and out, reporting on the status of everything from the wounded to the plans to repair the gardens that had been upturned in the fighting.

“Aye, woman, just send a guard or two with ‘em. Spell’s broken so we should be safe. Soon as Lord Philip wakes, he’ll figure out what happened,” Richard agreed, pushing aside his second helping of fried pies. The man ate as if he had a hollow leg that needed filling, Clint thought for the third time today. Ever since the fight had ended, the Laird had taken to calling both Clint and Philip by their titles; Clint guessed that was a good sign.

Philip had been asleep for over a day. Bruce had warned it would be a long time before Philip was able to be up and moving again, but Clint still checked every hour or so despite having stationed William and Theodore on wake up duty. Philip had looked so pale and lifeless when Clint had laid him down on the sheets, so drained and distant.  Clint, on the other hand, had been filled to the brim with energy, ready to finish the fight and go after the son of a bitch Loki right then. It had come from Phil, all that power flush in Clint’s body, and guilt had wrapped around his brain and would let go. Had Philip given too much? Had Clint’s life been bought at too high a price?

And then there was Philip’s slurred declaration of love; Clint’s heart thumped against his chest at the very thought of those words. Saying “I need you” wasn’t the same as “I love you” so Philip’s reply had been unexpected … but that was semantics for scholars to argue, not two people tossed together in danger and adversity. How much difference was there really? Wasn’t Clint’s desire to keep Philip safe and protected, to hope he was more than just a means to an end the same thing? Love, Natasha would say, was a weakness, and until now Clint would have agreed with her. But he loved Natasha and Carol and Jessica, a fierce love born in fire and battle and supported by trust. Did it matter that he didn’t want to have sex with them? Their bonds were strong and they hadn’t let him down. They didn’t make him weaker; they made him stronger and Philip … Philip made Clint able to contemplate taking on the world.

Just how did he feel about Philip? Fierce? Yes. The whirlwind of power that spun between them when they touched was all that and more. Obsessive? Maybe.  Clint’s thoughts never left Philip; he was a constant variable in every decision. Clint had voluntarily thrown himself between Loki and Philip. Physical lust? Oh, yes. The curve of Philip’s neck haunted Clint’s dreams and the memory of his taste filled Clint’s mouth at odd times. Having his body every way, all day, that need wasn’t diminishing or going away, just getting stronger. Love? If he was honest with himself, there was only one answer to that question.  More than rational thought, beyond the baggage Clint carried, at some level he had no name for, the answer had to be yes. And that scared him, the veteran of arms who’d rather face a squadron of elite guard than admit that he was in love with Philip Coulson, his own husband. 

Facing that had taken time and some hard, sweaty work. After he’d left Philip asleep, rather than think about what he’d said, Clint had immediately gone back to the battle, but there was no fight left. Whatever Philip had done affected all the revenants and wargs; the undead simply dropped where they stood, unmoving flesh and bone once again. Some people reported that they heard sighs as it happened, but most agreed the force that animated them just disappeared. The wargs, for the most part, ran away, confused and disoriented. A few that were cornered or trapped continued to attack like the wild animals they were; stepping aside gave the wolves a chance to retreat and almost all but the most wounded took it. Questions were rampant about how and why, but overall there was simple relief; concern turned to the wounded and dying. Many worried about Loki’s intentions when they learned he’d fled the battlefield and opened the manor.  Fortunately, only Clint, Bruce and Philip were on that landing to see exactly what happened, so keeping the details out of common knowledge was manageable.

In the end, Clint went with truth to a point. Loki, he told everyone, was working for the sorcerer who had sent the attack. Clint had confronted the Prince and Philip had saved him from Loki’s retribution. If most assumed that Loki’s absence was what caused the spell to be broken then that was acceptable.  With Carol and Jessica, he shared the whole story from beginning to end, or at least as much of it as he could remember. There were a few minutes when Clint knew nothing beyond his own pain, just snatches of Philip fighting and healing him. But the power Clint did remember, the wash of static rolling over him, prickling the hairs on the back of his neck once and twice before Philip turned his focus exclusively on Clint. Then it had been a soothing balm poured over his wounds, a lullaby that called him back from the edge of darkness he was balanced on. Philip had ripped the spell right out of Clint’s chest with a jolt that was like a driving overture of major chords and strident melody.

Clint had worked tirelessly to help with the cleanup, forcing first Jessica and then Carol to get some sleep and spelling the Lairds as straw bosses, finally using Melinda as his secret weapon to get Richard McCarter to go to bed. For Bruce, he found a quiet room next to where Philip lay so the clerk could regain his strength; the berserker rage, twice in as many days, left Bruce disoriented and weak. So Clint made sure the wounded were tended to, the bodies, including the revenants, were rounded up and prepared for funeral pyres, and the wargs burned in pits outside the palisades. The numbers weren’t as bad as Clint feared; only seven dead and less than twenty wounded, counting everything from minor to those who might not make it. Bruce’s poultice was working to draw out any poison.

Ten hours later, Carol put her foot down; Clint went quietly, his energy finally beginning to flag. He found Theodore sitting in a chair by the hearth, William crammed in next to him, his head halfway down Teddy’s shoulder, drooling as he slept. With no effort at all, Teddy picked up his friend and carried him out of the room, his own eyes at half-mast. Stripping off his second set of clothes – he’d changed from his ripped shirt and pants when he’d brought Philip here earlier so as not to alarm anyone – Clint had slipped under the covers warmed by his husband.  Philip had stirred, cracked his eyelids and rolled right up to Clint’s body, tucking himself into the hollow along Clint’s side. Clint had left him still sleeping, foot hanging over the side of the bed and one arm outstretched, and gone to start making decisions about what to do next.

“Is there any food left in the kitchen?” Philip asked from the doorway, blinking owlishly at the light. His hair was a complete mess, sticking up in different directions, and dark circles marred the skin under his eyes, but he looked a good deal better than he did before. “I think I missed supper.”

“Of course,” Melinda waved at a passing girl and sent her off to the kitchen. “You’ll be starving after that long sleep.” She reached out her hand to her husband who huffed but pulled her up out of her chair. “Time to check in with Nellie again, isn’t it?”

“Yes, dear.” Richard knew better than to argue with her. “Although you could just say ‘let’s leave them alone for a bit,’ you know.”

“Tact, darling. I keep explaining to you the value of tact,” she kept talking as they headed out the doorway.

Philip smiled as he sank down into one of the comfortable chairs. Stretching out his legs, he propped his feet up on a stool and let the fire warm him. “William told me a little about what happened while I was out – that’s the longest I think I’ve ever spent in bed! – but he was very vague on the details. We won, the scary guys are all dead again, and the wargs are gone.”

“Succinct and to the point.” Clint pulled another chair next to Philip, facing the opposite direction but arms about even with each other. Sightlines for all the doors that way and a little privacy for conversation.  “The spell animating the revenants was broken…” he raised an eyebrow at Philip, “… and the wargs, once freed from the sorcerer’s control, fled.”

“All of them?” Philip was surprised.  “I didn’t intend that.”

“It was a good thing you did.” Clint could glide his fingers over the back of Philip’s hand from this position, stirring a warmth inside him. “We were overrun, what with Loki turning on us.”

“How much do they …” Philip looked around at the empty hall bathed in the late afternoon weakened sun.

“Loki’s a pawn, but a villain. The rest is between us.” Clint squeezed Philip’s wrist to comfort him.

“Bruce?” Philip took the glass of ale from the serving girl who curtseyed and ran back towards the kitchen.

“Slept almost as long as you did; he’s downstairs working with the most serious cases.”  Clint watched the way Philip’s throat bobbed as he took a long drink from the mug. “So far, they are all responding well to treatment.”

“I’ll want to check them for any … residue.” Phil flinched, the tiniest squint of his eyes. “Like in Sam and Andrew and you. Loki wanted me to know that. Made sure I saw how he handled it.”

“He’s a walking contradiction,” Clint agreed, pausing while the girl sat down a small pie next to Philip. The golden crust had a cross cut in the center and fragrant steam rose in the cooler air. Philip picked up the spoon and broke the pastry, letting the pieces fall into the mixture inside. Scooping up some beef, carrot, pearl onions, and pastry with gravy, Philip blew on it to cool it before he cautiously took a bite. When they were alone again, Clint continued. “He has his own angle, the manipulative bastard. But he’s in over his head.”

“From what I’ve read of the royal family, Loki’s always been a trouble maker, preferring to sow the seeds of discord. King Odin took him as a thane to help end a war, raised him from a baby, and Loki has long resented that fact. Add in that Odin’s heir, Prince Thor, is a warrior without match – hot-headed and fond of revelry, if the stories are to be believed – and many believe Loki acts out of jealousy.” Philip ate his pie at a steady pace, breaking his words with bites. “I would guess that Loki thought he could play the sorcerer and emerge the conquering hero. Seems he was sadly mistaken.”

“He showed you how to heal and gave me a warning.  Find it first … he couldn’t tell me what it was they seek … and to tell Sif to guard the Royal treasure hall of Asgard.” Clint moved his hand to Philip’s thigh, needing to touch, rubbing a circle with his thumb.

“If half the whispers of magic in that treasure room are fact, then we could be in serious danger.” Setting the empty pie tin aside, Philip picked up the fried pie that had accompanied his meal and bit into it. Sugar collected on the edge of his lips as he licked some apple filling off his fingers. “Maybe there is more than one item. I shudder to imagine how much more power our adversary might collect. Already nothing can stand against him; if he can take an Asgardian prince, what will he be like with the combined might of ancient magic?”

“Loki said we could stop him …” Clint watched Philip’s face intently, “… if we finished the bonding. I assume he means the marks and the sharing, but Bruce knows nothing more than he’s already shared. I thought we’d not head straight back to the manor, you and me; instead we could visit someone who might be able to help us. You need to meet Old Man Singer for yourself. I suspect you’ll get along all too well.”

A myriad of emotion crossed those blue eyes – hope, surprise, hesitation, and a flare of interest. “Jessica told me of Singer’s filing system and his unique books. I would love to stop by and find some answers.” He popped the last bit of the palm sized pie into his mouth, thumb and middle finger slipping past his lips; Clint couldn’t stop following the progress as Philip licked them clean.

“Longest time you’ve stayed in bed? Truly?” Clint had to ask. The statement had been bothering him, mostly because it made him picture Philip sprawled out among the sheets for more than sleeping.

“I was ill once when I was young, but my mother believed in fresh air and exercise, so I left my bed to read outside in the garden. But other than sickness, there’s never been a reason to stay longer than necessary and far too much work to do to lie about.” Philip tilted his head as desire kindled in his eyes.

“Oh, I can think of a reason.” Clint leaned forward, fingers slipping to caress Philip’s inner thigh. “When we have the chance, I will take you on a proper honeymoon and show you exactly what pleasure there is in never leaving the bed. My grandfather had a hunting cottage in the foothills; if it’s still there, we’ll spend a week doing nothing else.”

“In my experience, an hour suffices, sometimes no more than a few minutes,” Philip answered with a quirk of his lips. He knew the game they were playing now. “A full day? A man needs some down time.”

“Oh, there are many entertainments that don’t need a stiff cock, my dear Philip. I will keep you naked and sated and teach you how to enjoy doing nothing but touching.” Voice dropped to a whisper, Clint’s hand slid further up.

“And on the way there, you’ll ride me the whole way?” Philip shifted his legs wider apart, too caught up in their flirtation to worry about being seen.

“I’d ride you now if you’d like. Shall we go back to bed?” Clint was so close now he could smell the cinnamon and see the last grains of sugar clinging to Philip’s mouth.

“There’s so much to do,” Philip objected, but he didn’t make a move to pull away.

“The closet then, just off the hall. I’ll push you against the wall and we’ll … “ Clint’s words stopped as he flicked his tongue and caught the sweetness, tracing across Philip’s lips before brushing them lightly with a gentle kiss. “Do you remember what you said to me when I put you to bed?”

Philip’s brow crinkled as he thought about it. “Vaguely. I asked if you were all right.”

Clint kissed him again, another easy brush of lips. “After I told you not to scare me again, when I said that I needed you.”

Perplexed, Philip shook his head. “No. That’s all fuzzy, I’m afraid. Why? Is it important?”

“You told me you loved me.” Clint wasn’t sure why he was doing this; if Phillip didn’t remember, Clint could safely ignore it. But his gut was telling him it needed to be said aloud, spoken in the light of day, out in the open.

Sitting back in the chair, Philip’s face flushed and he actually stammered as he tried to answer. “I don’t … that isn’t … I mean … I was exhausted, Clint, and I don’t know why I would have …”

“Phil.” Clint cupped his chin with his fingers and made Philip look at him. “It’s okay.”

“Can I argue diminished capabilities?” Philip asked, his eyes begging Clint to let the subject go. “I hardly have the right to make any sort of grand declaration.”

“You could, if what you said wasn’t true.” That damn itch was back, the one that Clint was coming to realize meant that magic was stirring between them. “But I think you’re right about the music having lyrics. If we’re going to face this foe, we need to start facing what is happening.” He stopped and took a second to calm his racing heart before he continued. “Too fast, too deep, too much, I agree. But I love you, Philip Coulson and I will move heaven and earth to keep you safe and in my life. My bed too. Preferably all the time.”

Breath caught in his throat, Philip was silent, but he didn’t need to speak. His body shouted his feelings as clear as words; he leaned forward, his eyes alight with joy, his lips parted in a silent gasp, and his fingers squeezed Clint’s. “Gods, you are a surprising man. I’d have thought you’d fight it; I’m the damn hopeless romantic of the two.” He chuckled and filled his chest with air before releasing it with a sigh. “Guess it’s a good thing I love you too, then. And, if fate ever gives us a break, bed for a week sounds lovely.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” Clint pulled him in, this kiss full of promise and reminders of pleasures to come.

“Lord Barton, Lady Sif wishes to … oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” Nellie McCarter stopped and turned her head away.

“Please excuse my husband, Miss McCarter. He’s under the impression we are still newlyweds,” Philip glared at Clint who wasn’t sorry at all and certainly didn’t move his hand. “Lady Sif?”

“She is in the solar and preparing to leave for Asgard; she has been waiting to speak with you, Lord Philip,” Nellie answered.

“Tell her we’ll be right there,” Clint said. Nellie curtseyed and left.  “I’m sure we can find a closet along the way,” he said to Philip, who only raised an eyebrow as he levered himself up out of his seat.

“Later. I promise.” Philip bumped Clint’s shoulder as they walked across the stone floor, avoiding the stairs to the landing. “Maybe sooner. But we should see Lady Sif off.”

“Work, work, work. Remind me why I married you again?” Clint teased, loving the way Philip’s blush ran up his neck and spread over his cheeks. “Oh, yes, there’s the whole ‘tie me up’ thing and that delicious mouth you have.”

“And here I thought it was because I can run your household, fight off monsters, and put good food on the table,” Philip shot back. “You just want me for my body.”

“Um, yes, I do. Although the food is a nice bonus.” Taking Philip’s hand, Clint interlaced their fingers. “And the roof. I like not being rained on. Oh, and that big bathtub. And a bathing room in the new manor.”

“Takes very little to please you, doesn’t it?” Philip laughed.

“Just you.” He squeezed Philip’s hand as bright red spots appeared on his cheeks.

“Clint, you are such a distraction,” Philip complained. That only made Clint all the more determined to keep complimenting him. He’d bet everyone had always taken Philip for granted and hadn’t told him how wonderful he is nearly enough. 

“My Lords, thank you for coming.” Sif was busy tying her packs and stowing her sword. “You are well and rested, Philip?”

“Indeed, my lady. I would thank you for your very timely aid ‘ere you go. It was an honor to have you fight alongside our people.” Philip inclined his head. He was so good at these types of interactions, knowing the right level of formality.

“You were invaluable, my lady,” Clint echoed because it was true.

“The information I gained will be of great help to my country. I had a question or two to clarify, if you wouldn’t mind?” Her eyes were wise and kind, and not for the first time, Clint wondered what Sif saw in Loki that he did not.  He nodded in agreement; there was no one else in the room but the three of them. “I am not a user of magic – I much prefer the sword and my own strength – but I would know how you broke the spell. The knowledge could be invaluable to us.” Clint saw Philip’s quick glance his way as did Sif. “The time for hiding is drawing to a close; the darkness is upon us. King Odin has long predicted the end of this time of peace. You may be the first to come into the light, but you will not be the last.”

She was right; villains were already at work. Those in the safety of the capitol might be able to hide their heads in the sand, but for them, the time had come to face the challenge.

“The spell is wound around the spine at the base of the neck. That’s why cutting off their heads works; you sever the connection. Take the magic from one, though, and they all fall down,” Philip answered. “The wounded also bear the marks of the magic; I don’t know what would happen if not removed from the victim, but it wouldn’t be good. Tell them to be careful; the true caster may be hidden beneath another’s imprint.”

“Loki.” Her eyes dimmed with a flicker of sadness. “Would that he were not involved, but it is his way. I will make no apologies nor excuses for him. I can only say that, in abstraction, he means to do what he thinks is right, but in execution he confuses his own desires with the good of others.”

“He wants to be saved, my lady,” Clint said. “But he may find he has gone too far for forgiveness.”

“On this, we agree.” She sighed again then shouldered her pack. “I’ve not a way with words, so I’ll be blunt. This foe has shown himself to be formidable; we will need all the weapons at our disposal. Finish the bonding ritual and prepare yourselves. As the first of your kind in a long time, you must lead those who will come.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know what that means, would you?” Clint threw caution to the wind. “We’re in new territory here. Are you talking about the marriage ceremony? We didn’t actually exchange vows, so that might be the problem.”

Sif’s smile was genuine at their confusion. “Not common marriage vows, no. Have your people let the greatest of all power slip out of your memory? You’ve forgotten so much of what is real and made it fairytales. You, Clint Barton and Philip Coulson, are bonded souls, your lives entwined, your power exponential when shared.”

“B-b-bonded?” Philip stuttered the word. “That’s just a myth …”

Clint stared, his mind whirling, so many little details adding together to the impossible. 

“Asgardians are different. We do not have bonds such as these, so I cannot tell you more than this: a bond is a tenuous thing until cemented through words and actions. You have already figured out some of the steps yourselves. Find the rest.” She shouldered her packs. “I wish you speed and good journey, friends. I would hope you have long and happy lives, but the future is dark and not yet written, according to our seers. So I will offer you my gift of strong love and blessed children.”

“Children? Bonded and children?” The words were out of his mouth before Clint thought better of them.

“You will be wonderful parents,” she said with a smile. “I will give your jewel to Queen Frigga, Lord Philip, and tell her that she missed out on an excellent son-in-law. Do not be surprised if she takes a great interest in your family. She does so love grandbabies to spoil.”

With that parting word, Sif strode from the room and left them both gaping at each other. Philip sank down onto one of the benches, shaking his head.

“No, no, no. That’s not … we’re not …” He rubbed his hands along his thighs. “She’s wrong.”

“Phil.” Clint sat down beside him. Not that he was having the easiest time of accepting Sif’s pronouncements, but he couldn’t deny the evidence before him.

“Bonded? Like Lord Rogers and Thane Barnes? I’m just a glorified estate manager, not some mythical hero of old.” He looked so lost in that moment, filled with doubt. “I’m not a perfect knight or great fighter.”

“And I’m just an archer with a small holding, not even a real Lord.” Clint slipped a hand over one of Philip’s and stilled the nervous motion. “I’ve read the stories of Steve Rogers; he wasn’t born rich or special, he was just a kid who wanted to join the guard.”

“Stories. That’s all they are. Tales told for entertainment. I know that,” Philip argued as much for himself as Clint.

“So are revenants and magic, but we know those are real.  You are a mage, Phil, powerful enough to break a sorcerer’s spell. If anything, I’m the weak one in this equation.”

“Gods, you’re the hero here. A born leader with magic of your own and perfect aim.” With his furrowed brow and jiggle in his leg, Philip was clearly not ready to accept it might be true. 

“Are we arguing over which of us is the least worthy?” Clint had to laugh; he didn’t believe in himself very much, but Philip was always so confident about everything except his magic. “What we are or are not, we cannot deny that something is happening here. I say we see what Singer has to offer us. If he doesn’t have answers, we find other scholars or clerks who can help.”

“Without the Men of Letters finding out and labeling us heretics. We’re pushing the boundaries already; if word gets back to them that we’re talking about magic and bonding …” Philip was right. Their isolation at the edges of the Midlands was protecting them but it wouldn’t last forever.

“I think a Man of Letters is the least of our worries. Loki and our unnamed adversary are more immediate threats.”  Clint didn’t care about those self-styled scientific scholars who thought everything could be explained with math and logic.

“Don’t dismiss them. They hold sway with the King and much of the nobility. Lord Stark is a supporter of their work; they’ll ignore the danger for as long as they can because it doesn’t fit their paradigm.” Philip looked calmer now that the conversation had shifted.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. First, answers about bonding. Then, finding the item of power.  After that we can worry about the Men of Letters.”  Clint’s hand glided along Philip’s jaw and stopped in its familiar place; Philip’s skin warmed under Clint’s touch.  A faint buzz of energy vibrated along Clint’s arm. “I don’t know if I believe in being bonded either, but I’ll admit this has never happened to me before. Can’t hurt to learn more about what it is.”

“Knowledge never hurt anyone. It’s what you do with the information,” Philip agreed.

“Good. Let’s get going. We could get four hours on the trail if we hurry.” Clint stood and offered a hand up to Philip. “That still leaves us time for a visit to that closet.”

“Sex is not always going to be the answer,” Philip said, but Clint noticed he didn’t say no.

“True, but it’s affirming and restorative.” Clint grinned back as they walked down the hallway. “You fill me up, love.”

Philip shook his head, a smile playing across his lips, his earlier doubts fled in the face of Clint’s teasing.

“You know you’re stuck with me,” Clint went on.

Philip groaned. “Don’t you dare talk about glue.”

“Too soon?”

Clint kept the jokes flowing until they found Carol and started planning their trip to Caine’s Cross.  She wouldn’t let them head off alone – it was her job to protect them even when Clint wanted to be with his husband – and they settled on a two guard detail to accompany them. Carol and Jessica would see to the return of the rest of the troop to Frasierton and set about accelerating the search. Even though the four of them could make excellent time since Rodriguez and Johnson were good riders, Clint planned to stop for the night to give Philip more time to rebuild his energy. From here, fast horses could make Caine’s Cross in about twelve hours, but there was no telling what they might encounter on the road. Of course Melinda knew Robert Singer and had sent some of her children off to study with him, so she packed an extra horse full of various herbs and potions and a few books plus one case of very old whiskey from the McCarter stores. Clint certainly hoped Singer was willing to share that particular gift.

Finding time together was looking increasingly dim until Clint made the offhand remark that he wished he could have a bath before they left, but would have to settle for a cold pitcher of water instead. Melinda had immediately cuffed her husband on the back of the head and said, “Did you not show them the rain bath? I’ll start it heating up now and send down towels and soap.”

“Been busy, woman, saving my people,” Richard grumbled, but he ushered them towards the women’s wing anyway. “Daft woman and her obsession with cleanliness. Makes us all take two baths a week. The kids hated it until Henry got this idea and fixed it up himself. Water pours from the ceiling and drains away; had plumbing put in a few years back at the wife’s insistence and, don’t ye dare tell her, but best damn thing ever. Only trouble is how long it takes for the water to get warm, but Henry’s got ideas about that.”

He showed them into a chamber with two empty bathing pools. The air was moist, warm and cozy, heat seeping out of the stone walls adjacent to the flue of the main hall’s fireplace on one side and the kitchen’s cooking hearths on the other. Tucked into one corner was an opening with a curtain and beyond were a dressing room and a second room with a round metal spigot in the ceiling. Knobs were on one wall and the whole space was quite large.

“The boys give her grief, but they love it. She piles four or five at a time of the little ones and two or three bigger ones, tosses in soap and leaves them to it. Water runs out in about fifteen minutes, so they can’t get into too much trouble. All of it drains away and they’re at least a little bit cleaner than they were before,” Richard explained.

“How does it work?” Philip was peering up at the spigot, a good twelve inches round with a series of tiny holes in the metal face.

“Rain barrels on the roof for the water. Just above us is the upstairs common room; built a metal cistern into the wall next to the fireplace. Open the valve, water comes in and starts to heat up. Hank put it in just the right place to not get too hot, but be nice and warm. Then this knob lets the water come down into what he calls the shower head. You can turn it off and on as you like.” Richard was obviously proud of Hank’s invention. “Smart boy, our Hank. Daughter #4 married one of those Pyms out of what used to be Van Dyne’s land – sorry to hear about him, he was a decent man if a little odd with all those numbers he babbled – and Henry’s their eldest. Always fussing with gadgets and cogs and mechanical things. Sam the Tinker says he’s right smart enough to go to University, but they’re not interested in a Northern country boy. Snobs, almost the whole lot of them.” Richard glanced at Philip. “You’re an exception, boy.”

“It’s true, I know. Too many of the noble families look at University as a right due to their money and influence,” Philip agreed. “But there are good scholars there who do care. Despite his reputation, Lord Stark sponsors many for the open seats; I can put in a word for Hank. My brother Peter’s off to University in the spring; I was thinking of inviting him up during Michaelmas along with my younger sister. If you can make it down, we’ll introduce the two of them.”

Richard nodded, a big smile on his face. “Aye, that sounds good. Having a friend might make dealing with the fancy pants worth it. Be good to have one of our own educated; he might come home and actually live around these parts.”

Clint listened with only half an ear, taken in by the idea of bathing beneath a spray of water. He’d used outdoor pools and waterfalls before, but they tended to be icy cold, making quick work of it. There was the one natural hot spring high up in the mountains, but standing barefoot in the snow wasn’t the most enjoyable thing Clint had done. This, however, Clint could imagine having in his own home, and he was having a difficult time wrenching his mind away from the imagine of a naked Philip standing under the falling water, waiting for Clint to run his hands over all that gloriously bare skin.

“I’ll get you a copy of the plans,” Richard was saying as he was leaving; Clint had missed the arrival of towels and soap at some point, but he saw the glint of amusement in Laird McCarter’s eyes. “Hank would be proud to say you had one of these in the manor. And Clint seems taken with the idea.”

Philip was biting his bottom lip; he raised an eyebrow at Clint but Clint was distracted by a bead of moisture that was sliding down Philip’s neck. “We’d appreciate that,” Philip said.

As soon as the curtain closed, Clint’s finger snatched the droplet and ran back up to Philip’s jaw. “Too obvious?” he asked as he sat down on the bench and tugged off his boots.

“Staring at my crotch didn’t help.” Philip pulled the outer curtain shut and started undressing. 

“Rain shower, Phil. My soapy hands all over you.” Clint stripped out of his vest and shirt, hanging them on a hook. “Man can’t think when all the blood’s gone from his brain.”

“Well, you missed the reference to the things he and Melinda got up to in the shower.” Philip was matching him, both of them moving quickly to get naked. “I think this is a popular place for …”

Clint didn’t let him finish, pushing him against the warm stones and kissing him hard and fast. Lips slipped and slid together, the pent up tension of the afternoon uncoiling as they touched.

“Inside and shut the door,” Philip managed to break away long enough to say. “Someone’s coming with clean clothes.”

They pulled apart long enough to step over the small edge and shut the wooden door; it didn’t reach all the way to the top of the frame, but it blocked the view from the changing area for all but the tallest person. Philip had grabbed the soap and he found a little alcove in the stone at just the right height to drop it in.

“Ready?” Clint asked seconds before he turned the knob.

A steady stream of warm water sprinkled down, not enough to drench them, but enough to wet them thoroughly. Pulling Philip under the spigot with him, Clint let it rain on them both as he kissed Philip again. Slick bodies bumped and moved; Clint’s hand settled in the curve of Philip’s back as his tongue slipped inside Philip’s mouth. Gone was the urgency, washed away with the privacy of the room and the heat between them. It was Philip who reached over and shut the water off, taking the soap while they were still kissing and running lathered hands along Clint’s sides and back up his arms, lingering on his biceps. That was as satisfying as the kiss, long slow strokes of fingers along muscles and taut skin. Clint soaped up every inch of Philip’s body, bending to take each foot in turn, circling up Philip’s calves and thighs, then starting at his shoulders and slipping down over his lean chest, paying special attention to his nipples and the trail of light brown hair that led down to his aroused cock which Clint avoided for the moment to curve over Philip’s ass. Then he lathered up Philip’s hair for him as Philip did the same.

“Now I’ll just have to get it all messy again. I like the just crawled out of bed look you had,” Clint said.

“Wait, you let me talk to Sif with messy hair?” Philip protested. “What must she think?”

“I hope she assumed I was the reason you looked that way,” Clint answered with a laugh, turning the knob to start the water and rinse them off. When Philip started to speak, Clint tugged him closer and wrapped a hand around his lovely flushed cock, kissing away any words and leaving only breathy sighs. The water and suds made stroking Phil easy, Clint’s fist gliding up and down as his own muscles tightened in response. Not all the heat was from the steam and water; the magic added its own, and Clint held onto to Philip’s hips as they moved together.

“Going to come for me,” Clint whispered in Philip’s ear, biting the lobe and sucking it into his mouth. “Make you mine.”

“Gods,” Philip exhaled the word, his hands reflexively clutching at Clint’s shoulders. “I love you.”

Clint shifted his hips and brought their bodies into alignment, his cock nestled against Philip’s. Wrapping his hand around both, Clint began to thrust up, using his thighs and clenching his ass as he pushed Philip back into the wall again. The friction pushed them towards the edge, catching on each other and the curve of Clint’s fingers as they both snapped their hips up at the same time. Philip’s head fell back, his eyes closed and he gave one long sigh as he came; Clint buried his face into the curve of Philip’s neck and thrust a few more times before he followed into his own orgasm.

“If we get one of these, we may never leave it,” Philip murmured.

“Gods, I would love to fuck you under the water, all slick and open,” Clint’s mouth ran away from him as a euphoria settled in his spine. Energy spiked and he felt like he’d woken from a good night’s sleep. “Tell you I love you over and over again.”

“Keep talking like that and we won’t make it out of this bath,” Philip laughed. He pushed Clint back. “I feel good, all rested. And I didn’t make anything levitate.”

“Well, that’s not exactly true.” Clint wiggled his hips a little as he turned the water off. “But maybe using your power intentionally makes you less likely to accidentally use it.”

“Maybe.” Philip didn’t seem convinced. “Or I’m getting used to having sex with you on a regular basis.”

“If that’s what it takes, I’m willing to make the sacrifice.” Clint opened the door and cooler air hit them. He grabbed the corner of a towel and tossed it to Philip. “Every day, at least once. Maybe twice.”

“What have I gotten myself into?” Philip teased, his good humor returned.

“The answer to that would be me,” Clint replied.

Philip just groaned and threw his towel at Clint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since Hank is a diminutive of Henry, that's Hank Pym making a quick appearance in this chapter. I know he's supposed to be older, but that's the beauty of AUs, right? Staid and upright Hank will make a good companion for Peter Parker.


	13. Of Books and Rituals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At Old Man Singer's place, Philip and Clint research bonding rituals and learn some very important information about what Loki might be looking for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had a lot of fun in this chapter using real books and names for all the texts. A complete listing appears in the end notes.   
> Things are picking up speed towards the end of this part of the story; don't worry, there will be a second and maybe a third.
> 
> If the ritual poem sounds familiar, it's because it's Shakespeare's sonnet 116. 
> 
> The second poem Philip says while on horseback is from Pablo Neruda's love sonnets.

Of everything Philip imagined, the reality of Robert Singer was all that and much more. Riding past the gate into the Singer compound was like stepping into the pages of old texts come to life. He recognized a number of the items haphazardly stacked on top of one another as they rode up to the front of the house. One of the scholars at University specialized in mechanics, the study of metal and ancient relics; Philip had spent some enjoyable hours in the library reading various theories about the functions of some of the more common items that were still in use and even wilder ideas about long lost knowledge. Most people were familiar enough with some mechanics that they wouldn’t bat an eye at a pulley system or a metal wheel and axle, but a wheeled cycle was rare enough to be part of the King’s collection of oddities. The three sitting, rusting, in Singer’s yard, were very different from the child’s toy on display in the Capital. These were adult size, with linked metal chains connecting the pedals to the wheels; one was even more elaborate with a mass of metal coils leading to an empty square space where some element was missing.

Machines weren’t unheard of, they were just few and far between. The more complex, the more likely they were to be nothing but a pile of rusty metal beside the road. Lord Stark was one of the few who did more than tinker with the various devices; he was an inventor and a fixer and some would use the term obsessed to describe Anthony’s interests. Philip had to admit that he shared a bit of that. Anything from Pre-Era fascinated him, be it history or stories or people or things.

He had a small collection of his own that was still packed away in the trunks back at Barton Manor. Nothing large or worth much, just a few odds and ends that he’d found or been given. His father had some of Lord Rogers’ items that were special to Philip because they reminded him of his youth. He had a clockwork time piece and a chainmail gauntlet made of lightweight metal that didn’t rust. But his favorite of everything was a series of pennovs, dark uniform ink on thin vellum, whose dog-eared pages told stories of Lord Rogers, Thane Barnes and Lady Carter.

Twice he wanted to stop and go examine something … a pile of large metal boxes with hinged doors that looked vaguely familiar and a leaning tower of thin metal signs with some decorations still visible … but he kept riding, Clint’s smirk keeping him from being too much of an academic. Still, he marked the places in his mind, intent on coming back to sift through the various junk to see exactly what was there.

Bobby Singer was waiting for them at the front door, and he looked over Philip from head to toe before he gave a quick nod to the girl behind him. She darted back in the house, feet bare even in the cool weather. Glass in the windows, wooden shingles … the home itself was old and just as interesting as the materials in the yard. Swinging his leg over, Philip dismounted and handed Lola’s reins to Johnson who took all their horses around back.

“Figured you’d be back,” Singer said, stepping aside so they could enter. “Heard about the attacks up north of here, so I started pullin’ some books out with info on the undead.”

Philip stopped dead in his tracks as soon as he stepped into the main room, the smell of old books a perfume to his nose. Stacks upon stacks of tomes in various conditions and sizes and age … just inside the door was a pile that came up to Philip’s waist, and the top book caught his attention. _Tottle’s Miscellany_. Next was _The Golden Legend_ , then _The Battle of Maldon, Le Roman de la Silence, The Tale of the City of Good Ladies_ , and _The Merry Thought_. Beyond was a stack of books all with the word _Spells_ in their title. A bookshelf of pennovs and some recognizable literary titles including a copy of _Poetics_. He couldn’t stop his fingers from brushing the worn brown leather of _Tottle’s_ over and over again as he stared and tried to take it all in.

“You’re going to have to remember to breathe,” Clint said, his breath warm on Philip’s ear. When Philip turned, Clint was grinning at him with an indulgent smile on his face. “Knew you’d like it.”

“Um, yes, I … these are very rare.” He could hardly frame a sentence when confronted with so many of his wildest fantasies. “Even the Library at the Capital doesn’t have a collection this impressive.”

“That’s because their acquisition clerks are idjits.” Singer lifted a stack off of an arm chair and deposited them on the floor. “They’ve no idea what to look for or where to look. Think someone’s going to walk in the door with a _Norton_ and just wave it at them. If any of the old books are still around, they’re moldering in someone’s attic or cellar. Got to get out and dig for ‘em, or have people like Sam who’ll do it for me.”

“So much knowledge,” Philip breathed the words as his hungry eyes surveyed the room.

“But a pain in the ass to get through. Keep meanin’ to get a better system or at least teach one of these damn kids that keep showing up how to organize ‘em, but I get sidetracked.” He’d cleared off a part of the big wooden desk already. “Now, you want to hear what I found about these revenants? _Tottle’s_ has the biggest entry but there’s more.” Philip reached for the book next to him to hand it over to Singer. “Nah, not that one. That’s a copy done by a Man of Letters who liked his whiskey better than he cared to translate things correctly. Got so many mistakes and missing entries. I just keep it around ‘cause it’s one of a kind.” He pulled a big book over and flipped open the cover, carefully turning the pages. “We need an original copy for this. You read the Old Language?” He addressed the question to Philip.

Head spinning for just a second, Philip waivered at the sight of the tome on the desk. Clint’s hands tucked under his elbows and helped him over to lower down in the chair. “Books are important to Philip,” Clint said to Singer. “Maybe a shot of whiskey might help?”

“It’s okay, boy.” Singer reached for a couple glasses and pulled a bottle from the desk drawer. “Anyone who respects knowledge can’t be all that bad. Plus, you’ve hitched yourself to a decent fella so I guess you’re trustworthy.”

The brown liquor burned on the way down, waking him up from his surprised stupor. “I can,” Philip said. “Read it, that is. At least a few thousand years back. Never seen anything older than Henryson’s _Testament,_ though.”

“Got things far before Henryson, but that’ll do for now. Want to try this?” Singer pushed the book Philip’s way and he stood, steady now, running a reverent finger along the curve of the spine. He dipped down and smelled the leather and ink and a slight whiff of smoke. Then he read the tiny crablike handwriting next to the picture of a shambling undead creature drawn in the margin out loud.

Revenants (or abomynations) are wanderyng souls yanked from eternal blisse by a powerfulle sorcerer to serve his evile endes. Once drawn from earthe, only a severying of the spyne can free them from their wakyng deathe. See: _The Flyghte of  Red Hargrove_ and _The Roman de la Invaders_.

“Pretty much what we learned the hard way,” Clint said, leaning over to look at the picture. “What are those other things mentioned?”

“Other places revenants are referenced. Hargrove. I think I’ve heard that name before.” Philip searched his memory; for some reason, he could hear Nick Fury’s voice saying the name, but he couldn’t remember when or why.

“Red Hargrove was one of the original Invaders, the first Thanes to fight the first Sorcerer; rode a red dragon, that’s how he got the name.” Singer shuffled through some scrolls and loose papers.

“Yes, Lord Fury’s ancestor, according to legend, was the original founder of the troop, a few generations before Lord Rogers.”  Philip took the proffered parchment Singer held out; it was a copy of the ballad called _The Ride of Red Hargrove_. “I’ve never heard of this one. My father had a copy of _The Romance of the Invaders_ in his library; it’s been a long time and I’ll admit I don’t remember it at all beyond the name.”

“Nothing to write home about,” Singer commented. “ _The Invaders_ is more like a how-to manual on how to be a good thane. Lots of details of what they did and fought, a catalogue really. Probably a quick mention of undead in the lists, but it’s worth a look. This one,” he nodded at the parchment with the Hargrove poem, “is a ripping good yarn full of action and adventure. Too bad it’s fallen out of the song cycle. The bit about the dragon is especially graphic and bloody. People’d like it.”

Clint cleared his throat. “Much as I hate to interrupt you, we have other, more pressing questions to find answers for.”

Overwhelmed by so much of value in one room, Philip had completely forgotten why they’d come. “Yes. Of course. Items of power in the area. Something that a sorcerer would be looking for around here. We’re looking for an old story about Lord Rogers where he leaves his sword and shield with his thanes before the final battle somewhere near here. I think it was called _Death of the Red Sorcerer_ or something like that.”

“You talking about Dugan’s portion, aren’t you? Hell, everyone’s heard that tale; half the people ‘round her claim to be related to him. That’s what this is all about?” He crossed the room and pulled a book from a far shelf. The page he turned to was a lithograph; one Philip had seen copies of before. Rogers was standing on the top of a hill, cliff falling away beneath his feet, shield on one arm, sword held aloft in the other. Just behind and to the left was Thane Barnes; the rest of his thanes ranged in a semi-circle, each one distinct and famous in their own right.

“There’s a power out there looking for a magical item and they think it’s here somewhere. He’s behind the attacks and the revenants. Each place that’s been targeted is related to Dugan, so it’s not a leap to connect the dots,” Clint said.

“It’s bigger than just Dugan though; whoever the sorcerer is, he’s got Prince Loki under his thrall and is aiming to steal something from the treasure hall of Asgard. Lady Sif is taking the warning to the King even as we speak.” A thought was niggling at the edges of Philip’s brain, but it remained elusive; he couldn’t pin it down.

“Damn it.” Singer poured more whiskey in his glass and drank it in one swallow. “He’s after the whole armor. That’s bad.” At Clint’s look, Singer explained. “Despite what most of the stories say, Rogers didn’t fall into the ocean; it was Lake Caldera high in the mountains. It was a sacrifice play and he knew it; before he went on alone, he separated his belongings and gave them to each one of his thanes.  Shield, sword, breastplate, buckler, and Barnes’ knife – rather than go with Rogers, the thanes scattered and went their separate ways, hiding their portions far apart, keeping quiet about their whereabouts. Hell, I’m pretty sure a couple of them even started the bastardized stories to throw people off the track. Then Webster wrote that stupid play with Rogers drowning in the ‘icy waters of dragon death’ …. terrible heroic couplets and clunky dactylic hexameter … and that version took off and what really happened didn’t matter anymore. Hardly anyone remembers it except in pockets like here where Dugan settled.”

“What was so important about Roger’s armor that it needed to be protected like that?” Clint asked.

“Each piece had magic of its own, pretty damn powerful from what I’ve read, but used together by someone like Lord Rogers? Heightened not just his abilities, but those who followed him. People were willing to die for Rogers – and it’s a damn lucky thing he was a good man or he could have ruled the whole Midlands and beyond – and his thanes were darn near invincible by sharing in that. You’ve heard that old rhyme about pieces falling apart and being put back together again, haven’t ya’?” Singer looked at Philip; that was what he was missing. A simple children’s game of hide and seek.

Roger’s men are scattered wide,

Now’s the time for all to hide,

Five, four, three, two, one,

Find them all and he will come.

 

“I’ve also heard it as ‘Ready, men, scatter wide’; that one ends with ‘find them all, make them come.’ Right under our noses.” Philip should have seen it. “Hide them, bury the story, but leave clues in case we need them again.”

“Exactly. Montgomery Falsworth supposedly struck off North, going exploring. If he made it over the mountains, he’d have wandered into Asgard; they’ve got long memories and I’d bet they know a lot more about where Falsworth’s portion ended up than they’ll ever let on, but the treasure room’s a good bet. Morita went west, Jones headed south, and Dernier opted for east. They had to know that villains would want to find a couple of the items and harness their energy. A newly formed sorcerer, no matter how much he can manage on his own, would be after them,” Singer said with a shrug. “I’ve got some books on the items here. A journal supposedly written by Dugan’s grandson somewhere, if I can remember what shelf it’s on.”

“And we need to look for bonding rituals,” Clint added.

Singer stopped and turned, eyeing them both. “You mean bonding like oaths and geas and things like that? I’ve been reading up on those …”

“More like marking, claiming and, um, partners. Bonded.”  Philip saw the older man’s eyes widen as he looked first at one then the other.

“Holy hell. You two?” He asked, incredulous. When Clint nodded, Singer cursed under his breath and abruptly turned and went into the next room. He returned in a few seconds with a crystal decanter with dust on top which he blew off before uncorking it. “I’m getting too old for this kind of shit. I need the good stuff.”

Philip sniffed the dark liquor after Singer poured it first in his glass then both of theirs. It was peaty with a hint of cedar and something darker, and it tasted sinfully smooth as it went down his throat. Sip after sip, Philip could feel the tingle in his belly as it pooled there, calming his frazzled nerves.

“Never thought I’d live to see these days.” Singer sagged down into a chair, heedless of the books that slid off as he did. “Sorcerer strong enough to bind an Asgardian Prince, no less. Roger’s armor back in play, and now the first Bonded. I thought the storm was coming; I was wrong. The storm is here, and I missed the beginning.”

“I think everyone did, if that helps,” Philip offered. Lord Fury, Lord Stark, all of them … they’d only begun to believe that something very old had reawakened, but evil was knocking on their doorstep.

Singer snorted, and he settled his hat more firmly on his head. “Well, then, there’s no time to waste. Don’t know much about bonded other than a few good tales – never really done any research into how it worked – but there’s plenty of material around here. The good stuff’s down in the cellar, the really old books. Kevin!”

A young man in his early teens came through the door at the back of the room; dark haired and tanned skin, he cocked his head and said, “What? I’m working on that translation as fast as I can.”

“Drop that. We’ve got bigger problems. I need to make a list of search terms and then we’re going to open the cabinets downstairs, so get the gloves and candleless lights.” Singer’s moment of doubt passed and he was up and moving. “Tell Elspbeth to put on a kettle for coffee. Going to be up all night.”

The boy dashed to the desk and took out a scrap of parchment, writing on one side, flipped it over as he laid out a quill pen and ink. “What if they prefer ….”

“Yes, you can make some tea.” Singer shooed the boy out of the room. “He’s a good kid, talented with languages, but he eats and drinks enough for three of him. Now you sure about this bonded thing?”

“Lady Sif and Prince Loki both agreed; they recognized the signs.” Philip was racking his own brain for anything he might have come across to help find a place to start.

“Marking doesn’t sound familiar, but there’s something about claiming in the _Skull Cycle_.” Singer began to write, the sharp tip scraping across the parchment, leaving trails of ink in its wake. “What else are we looking for?”

“There are stages and it’s more than just marriage type vows.” Philip carefully put the scroll down he had in his hands. “What about the _The Lais of Marie de France_? I seem to remember talk in them of discovery of bonds, especially the one with the twin sisters.”

“Nah, those are modern interpretations of a much older works; Marie made lots of changes to make the Queen happy at the time. But I might have a piece or two of the _Letters of Heloise and Abelard_.”

“ _The Lay of Tinuviel_ ,” Clint suggested. “I heard that one down in the Southern Isles. The bond drew them together, and there were a bunch of trials and things they had to get through.”

Singer fixed them both with his singular gaze. “We’re talking magic here, right? No reason to dance around the truth. I might have friends in the Men of Letters, but I disagree with their head in the sand philosophy.”

His heart dropped in his chest and Philip froze. Clint touched his arm, and he glanced into those comforting blue-grey eyes. “I’m a mage,” he admitted.

“Sorcerer and now there’s a mage.” Singer shook his head. “Next you’ll tell me that Barton over here has magic too and you’ve assembled a group of other gifted …” He stopped talking as he saw their reaction. “Aw, hell.  If we’re at this stage, odds are there are others out there, maybe even more bonded pairs starting to come together, all in preparation for whatever is coming at us.”

“That’s why we need to finish the bonding; according to the Asgardians, we’re out of time and need all the defense we can muster,” Clint agreed.

“Alright then. No time to waste. Let’s get started.”

It took a few hours to fall into a pattern, but they eventually got a system that worked. Singer worked up lists of books to be searched then Kevin and Johnson – whose father had been a scholar, it turned out – found them and brought them from their location in the house. Philip and Clint and Rodriguez scanned as fast as they could through the reams of written words. Day slipped into evening; Ferguson the farmer showed up with a crock of chicken soup, fresh baked bread and two blackberry crumbles from the town folk. Singer insisted they eat in shifts, keeping the food away from the more fragile books, then it was back to work for all of them.

Their research fell into three piles: nothing of use, might be interesting, and definitely come back to later. Anything exciting they shared out loud and Kevin made a notation of the source. Clint got most of the books about Roger’s armor and any tale of those final days before the fall. Philip took the ones about bonded couples or claiming. Rodriguez read up on revenants and geas spells and anything that might help them if there was another wave of attacks.

As night fell, Singer lit the lanterns, and they kept going until Philip looked and saw Clint’s head tilted back against the wall, his eyes closed and mouth open slightly as he slept. Nudging his husband, he got Clint to agree to sprawl out on the couch for an hour or two by promising he’d take a nap next. By the time Clint awoke with the first rays of the sun, the words were running together on the page in front of Philip, and he admitted he, too, needed rest. If Singer stopped at all, Philip didn’t notice it. They broke their fast with oatmeal mixed with honey and raisins along with yet another pot of coffee; still the day wore on.

“Phil. What was that you said when you healed me?” Clint sat up, pushing over a stack of discards. “Something like this? A star for those who wander, worth more than any can measure.”

“Healed? He healed you?” Singer laid his book down and looked at Philip.

“He was dying.” Philip downplayed what had happened and changed the subject. “What have you found?”

Clint stood and dropped the open book on Philip’s lap, leaning over and putting his hand on Philip’s shoulder. “It’s part of a play. The hero writes a poem for the woman he’s in love with, to woo her.” He started to read aloud. “When two perfect halves become whole, Nothing can stand in their way.”

A charge ran down Philip’s spine, Clint’s fingers tiny points of static where they lay.

“It is not love if they change because of hard times or bend to help those who would tear them apart.”

Phantom handprints began to heat on Philip’s skin.  Energy stirred, shifting to the surface.

“No, love is a fixed target, never missed in a storm, A star of unknown worth, a guide for those who wander.”

The discharge crackled between them, purple static that lifted the pages of the book.

“Time doesn’t matter, though beauty fades as years go by. No matter how brief, love does not change, staying true until the end of days.”

Lifting off his lap, the tome floated in midair; Philip could hear the faintest echo of music as it began to circle.

“If I am proved wrong, then I have never lived, nor has any man truly loved.”

The stacks around Philip’s chair levitated, books spinning slowing, separating and falling open. Clint’s breath was ragged in Philip’s ear, the sexual tension rising between them like a haze.

“Well, that settles that,” Singer spoke from his place at the table. “Let’s see it.”

Philip passed over the book. “Wycherley play, so no doubt he took the poem from an older source.”

“I think I’ve heard this before.” The older man pushed back from the desk and stood up. “Kevin. We’re going to get the _Norton_.”

He clattered down the stairs, the others following. Down in the cellar, he swung open a metal door; inside was cool circular room, shelves filled with carefully preserved books. Lights glowed as they entered, round spheres that gave off no heat. Singer pulled out a casket and opened the lid; inside were fragments of thin vellum sheets, pressed carefully between pieces of glass. He donned a pair of gloves before he touched them, lifting them out gingerly and looking through them.

“Here.” He laid it out on a table, hanging a light on the hook so it shown down and illuminated the perfectly consistent script on the partial page. “The original.”

Philip saw the full poem.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds  
Admit impediments. Love is not love  
Which alters when it alteration finds,  
Or bends with the remover to remove:  
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark   
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;  
It is the star to every wandering bark,  
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.  
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks   
Within his bending sickle's compass come:   
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,   
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.  
   If this be error and upon me proved,  
   I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

Just reading it sent shivers through him; he reached for Clint, releasing magic is short little bursts once his fingers touched Clint’s skin. If simply looking at it made his pulse react this way, he couldn’t imagine what reading it aloud would do.

“Don’t,” Singer warned when Clint opened his mouth. “Not until we get into a safe room. From that little display upstairs with the bastardized version, I don’t want to risk it.”

They copied it down on another piece of paper and Singer gently put the original back in the casket. Then he motioned them to follow him to another iron door on the other side of the cellar; inside was a circle inlayed on the floor with runic symbols carved in the silver. The stone walls were bare except for a couple of the strange light fixtures.

“You know how to close a circle?” he asked.

“Yes,” Philip admitted. “I saw a hedge wizard do it with an incantation once – he was blessing a fallow field – and I tried it myself. Almost blew up my mother’s prized primrose bush.” He shrugged sheepishly. “I was eight at the time.”

“Best if only you two go inside. I’ll stay out here and watch, but the rest should get out of the house. Just in case,” Singer flapped his hand to Kevin who headed upstairs to tell the others. Rodriguez hesitated, but Clint nodded and she reluctantly agreed. Dragging a chair in from outside, Singer shut the door behind him and spun the metal wheel to drive the long rods that locked it into place. “Start small, just a tiny bit of will, to see how much you need. Fairly simple to just touch …”

They were both already inside the circumference, so Philip knelt and laid his forefinger to the silver, letting a drop of energy seep into the metal. The runes glowed and he fell over backwards at the rush of air as a shimmery veil sprang up, curving to meet above their heads, half of a sphere that trapped them neatly inside.

“Wow.” Clint gazed around him. “When I saw a witch do this, there was nothing there; we all thought she was faking it until someone tried to throw a hex bag at her and it smacked into a wall. This, though, is amazing.”

“Burned a circle in the grass last time then burst,” Philip admitted. He remembered his mother’s shriek and the way his grandfather stared at him with disappointed eyes. His father hadn’t even noticed, too caught up in reading the newest addition to the library.

“This is a little bit?” Singer asked. “Hell’s bells, boy, I ain’t never met anybody who could make a shield this strong with everything they’ve got. One day, we’re going out in the woods and test your limits. But not today. Okay, go on and try to read the first line so we can see what happens.”

Clint reached down and helped Philip to his feet. “You want to read it?” he asked. Philip thought about it, and then shook his head no.

“You try. We should probably be touching; that seems to be important.”

“You’re not going to blow anything up,” Clint said with a teasing smile. “Trust me.”

Clint put the paper on Philip’s chest and spread one hand out to keep it there, three fingers on Philip’s leather vest.  His other hand slipped along the inside of Philip’s wrist, turning so they could each curl their hands around the other. With the warm weight of Philip’s left hand on his hip, Clint began to read. 

“Let not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments.”

Every place Clint’s hand had ever touched on Philip’s body began to burn, from the lightest of grazes that were embers blown to life to the marks on Philip’s face and hip that felt like a branding iron were sinking into the flesh. Splayed on his chest, Clint’s hand felt like fire itself, and the heat shot to Philip’s heart, igniting a very different kind of burning. He could swear he felt skin crackle and turn black with the need to touch Clint, but it was the parchment that burst into flame. Clint jumped back and it fell to the floor, nothing but ashes in seconds. Breaking the contact didn’t stop the ripple of power that flowed out from their bodies, purple lightning that sang as it went, slamming into the barrier of the circle which bowed and bent before it imploded, showering the room with tiny sparks that dissipated quickly, leaving only smoke and an intense desire behind. Clint reached for Philip, intent on kissing him right there, and Philip wasn’t going to stop him.

Singer wrenched open the door, and the fresh air stirred the smoke as it bled out into the cellar. “We’re fine!” he yelled as footsteps clattered down the stairs. “But this ain’t gonna work here. We need to figure out how to corral it better.”

They paused only through sheer will. Philip couldn’t stop staring at Clint’s wide blown eyes; he felt exactly the same, overcome by a desperate need to drag Clint to the nearest wall and fuck him for hours. But the door was crowded with people and he wasn’t going to lose control while they were being watched.

“Give us a minute,” Singer said, shooing the others back a step or two.  “Um, boys?”

Breaking away from Clint’s stare was difficult, but Philip glanced down to see a smoking handprint scorched into his leather vest and a matching one below Clint’s sword belt. Only then did he notice the pain in his arm; turning his palm, he saw the angry red marks of Clint’s fingers. Clint had a set of his own.

“That was only one line,” Clint said. “We’ll never make it through the whole thing...”

“You’re right. This circle ain’t going to work. Going to have to find one that’s bigger and got power of its own,” Singer agreed.

“The standing stones.” Philip jumped ahead. “Once we figure out how, we go there.”

“Aye, that might work,” Singer said.

Clint sighed and Philip knew he was too restless to sit back down. Music was singing through his veins, heart pounding in time to the energy rushing through them. If the intensity of what he was feeling right now was any indication, the actual ceremony was going to end with ripped clothing and some earth-shattering sex. Actually, it wouldn’t surprise him if that was part of the ritual; sex was the most intimate of all connections between two people.

“I’m going to need a break,” Clint said, shifting to ease his own erection that pressed against the ties of his leather pants. He wasn’t fooling anyone in the room. “Not used to sitting this long. I’m going to take Lucky for a ride, get some of this energy out.”

There was no mistaking Clint’s intention; Philip blushed, knowing that Singer had to see how aroused they both were. “We could all use some down time. An hour or so won’t hurt.”

“I could sleep,” Singer said, carefully keeping his eyes on their faces. “We’ll start back up at supper time. Need to air this place out anyway. Back upstairs, it is.”

“Meet me in five minutes in the stables. That’s as long as I can wait,” Clint whispered into Philip’s ear as he followed Singer out of the room, giving Philip a good long look at his ass.

Embarrassed, Philip’s need was too much to ignore or put aside. Neither Johnson nor Rodriguez liked the idea of them leaving on their own, but they agreed after both Clint and Philip took the time to put on their mail and take their weapons, just in case. They had to know what Clint had planned, and Philip was glad that they were part of Clint’s troop who didn’t see them as Lords to be guarded, but more than competent fighters who could handle themselves.

Clint saddled Lucky and vaulted up, reaching a hand down to help Philip in front of him. The easy gait they took out of the yard rocked his already worked up desires; he sat inside the circle of Clint’s arms as they held the reins, pressing his ass back against Clint’s hard length, the pommel rubbing against his own cock as they rode. Once they were out of sight of the house, Philip turned his head, opening for Clint’s kiss, a claiming of his mouth that made him groan for more. Spurring Lucky onto a path and giving the horse freedom to move into a faster pace, Clint slid a hand down Philip’s chest and palmed his cock through the leather, dragging the side of his palm along the thick edge.

“Good gods, Phil,” Clint muttered into his mouth. “I’d have taken you right there on the floor.”

“You can have me here, now.” Philip wiggled and Clint moaned. They went on that way for minutes, kissing and touching, Philip’s hands on Clint’s thighs, both of them bouncing with the rhythm of Lucky’s stride. But it wasn’t enough for long; the magic made them ache, more than ready. Reining to a stop in a copse of fir trees, Clint broke away long enough to urge Philip to dismount.

“Pants off,” he huffed. “If you wore a skirt, this would be easier.”

“Not exactly a fashion statement I’m comfortable with.” Philip pulled off his boots and slipped out of his pants as fast as he could.

“Men wear kilts around here, you know,” Clint said. “There’s a pot in the saddleback.” Tucking his boots and pants into the pouch, Philip put the small pot in his vest pocket. When he started to swing up, Clint stopped him and turned him around so they were facing each other, Philip straddling his lap, his thighs on top of Clint’s, their cocks lined up.

Desperate to feel Clint’s skin on his, Philip unbuckled Clint’s belt, opened his vest, and pushed the linen shirt up and out of the way. Leather pressed against chest as they kissed again, Philip fumbling with Clint’s laces, freeing the smooth cock with its flushed red head.  Clint dipped his fingers into the gel in Philip’s pocket; clenching his thighs, Philip lifted up to give Clint more access as he worked him open. He didn’t need much preparation, the energy was zinging through him, heightening every brush of Clint’s fingertips, setting his body on fire. Even the cool metal of their chain made Philip’s nipples harden, the friction of his own linen shirt chaffing the hard nubs. He covered Clint’s cock with his hands, and bit down on the seductive full bottom lip as he ran his tongue over Clint’s teeth.

“Fuck,” Clint groaned, clenching his thighs to keep Lucky steady as Philip lifted himself up and lined Clint’s cock up just right to slide down on it. The invasion burned, just like the marks, as if Clint was claiming him inside and out. His mind blanked, unable to think of anything but the way Clint was splitting him in two or maybe Clint was making them one, Philip couldn’t decide. Muscles trembling, he slowly sank down until he was fully seated on Clint’s lap. Clint’s cock so deep he could barely breathe and Philip’s cock trapped between then, rubbing along bare skin and bumping the edge of mail.

“Hold on,” Clint murmured then he spurred Lucky into a trot.

Riding has a natural rhythm, requiring the rider to move up and down, using their thighs and buttocks for control. Philip almost jerked off of Clint when he felt the first surge as Clint tightened his legs, the movement making his cock thrust up inside of Philip then retreat. For his part, Philip had to clench to keep from falling off and that pressed him firmly down at the same moment Clint lifted up. Slow at first, Clint kicked Lucky up to a gallop as they crossed a field, and the jolts of pleasure increased with each rocking motion as they rode.

Some part of Philip’s mind suddenly comprehended why the rhythm of hoofs on the ground was the primary tool of writers. The tha-thump, tha-thump, tha-thump became his own heartbeat, the rush of blood and the thrust of Clint inside of him, all winding together to become the bass for the music that began to build. The gallop became a full out run to the climax, words circling as his hands held onto Clint’s shoulders. He couldn’t stop them from flowing out of his mouth as he spiraled up to the orgasm that was building: “Love is a battle of the lightning, two bodies defeated by a single drop of honey.”

The crescendo hit him, energy and music crashing over him as he came, spurting between them and sending Philip’s mind reeling with the impact. Clint gave a last thrust up and filled Philip, groaning as his hand steadied them. Floating on the feeling of release, Philip heard a rumble of thunder that brought him back to his body.  Burying his head in the crook of Philip’s neck, Clint began to chuckle, bringing Lucky to a stop. A crack of lightning zigzagged between the clouds and the ground, and Clint laughed out loud as the first raindrops spattered on them.

“Tell me we didn’t do that?” he said, nuzzling under Philip’s ear.

“I wish I could, but I honestly have no idea.” Philip was still a little unmoored, awash in magic. The late autumn shower wet the colorful leaves that were strewn on the forest’s floor and matted Philip’s hair to his head, running down his neck and under the edge of his mail. He shivered; the rain was cool but it could be worse. The temperature was warm enough to keep it from snowing, a real possibility this far up in the foothills.

“Let’s put ourselves back together.” Clint guided the horse under the eaves where there was some shelter. It was all so awkward; Philip had to hold on, Clint slipped out and they were both messy. Dressing wasn’t any better. Wet legs didn’t make donning leather easy and Clint’s laughter rang out as he watched Philip dance on one foot, trying to tug his boot on.

“Your shirt is still open and you’re a mess,” Philip reminded him.

“Yes, but I don’t care. They’re going to know anyway. We caused a storm, Phil.”

Philip took his hand and swung up behind him this time; wrapping his arms around Clint’s waist, he pulled down Clint’s shirt and buckled his belt. “I can’t change the weather,” Philip protested.

“My weather mage,” Clint said, patting Philip’s hand affectionately. “You realize this bonding ritual will be twenty times more intense than one line? We should probably go into it naked to start with.”

Dropping his head on Clint’s shoulder, Philip sighed. “I know.”

They rode back to Singer’s place; Rodriguez took Lucky to the stable without so much as a word. No one else mentioned their disheveled state, but Singer did pass two books over to Philip once they’d cleaned up and gotten back to work. One look at the titles was all Philip needed: _Spells to Affect the Weather_ and _Dorigen’s Tale_.

It took most of the rest of that day and into the evening before they found what they were looking for. Clint read it, buried in an old romance about two knights fighting over the love of the same woman. It was a popular story at court and included two thousand lines where Arcite laid on the bed and bemoaned the fact he’d never even spoken to the woman, Emily, and Philip had always found the tale quite boring. Clint didn’t like it because both knights ended up dying at the end after a duel for Emily’s hand, a scenario that had never set well with him. But this was a much older version, without the pining and the double death scene; this story ended with the two knights falling in love and going through a detailed bonding ritual to be together. Emily was left to marry her original lover. There, described in poetic terms, was a step-by-step manual on how two gifted warriors pledged their eternal bond.

“Witnesses? Does it specify who or how many?” Philip was taking notes, trying to make sense of the overly stylized courtly romance.

“Just that they assembled their ‘favored companions’ and all agreed to the union,” Clint said. “Maybe that means Nat, Jess, and Carol?”

“And Bruce. Since he’s already part of the symbiotic connection, don’t you think?” Philip asked.

“Wait, you’ve got a connection already with someone? I thought that was only after the bonding.” Singer glared at them.

“I guess not. We’re working blind here.” Philip wished they could find a parchment with clear instructions instead of muddling through with half-truths and fiction. “What else?”

“Three claimings, which sound like marks … in the story they happen randomly during their adventures, so we’re on top of that. Today’s makes the last one.” Clint waved his hand, the fading red of the earlier fingers still visible on his wrist. “A verbal declaration of intent … that takes place in the final joust when they admit they’re in love with each other … and a formal declaration, which may or may not be the marriage vows?”

“I think the marriage contract is the legal part they do with the Lord before they set off. They sign something stating they will remain true to their intent,” Philip argued. “The formal declaration was in front of all the witness just before the ritual.”

“Which the poem conveniently omits. As well as being silent on the location.” Clint grimaced. “We’re on our own for those parts.”

“The outcome is pretty vivid. Two hundred and forty seven lines of their ‘love that knew no bounds, nary a thought of any but their united souls.’ Seems like we can expect blow back,” Singer noted.

Philip bit his lip. “That’s a real worry.”

Taking his cue from Philip, Clint said, “I’ll go get Johnson and Rodriguez on the road; one can head to the manor and the other back to the McCarters. Might take a couple days to get everyone here.” He left Philip alone with the older man as he exited the room.

“So, you want to tell me what to expect? You’ve been skittish from the beginning. Now, I imagine growing up a mage wasn’t all that fun, so hiding’s understandable. But there’s more.” Singer eyed him. “You worried about the sex that’s going to have to be part of the ceremony? Or whether he really wants you?

That made Philip snort at Singer’s gift of insight. “You’re an interesting man, you know that?”

“Been called things a lot worse than interesting,” he answered, leaning back against the desk and crossing his arms over his chest. “I just call ‘em as I see ‘em. Trust would be a hard thing for a kid with magic in a world that says it doesn’t exist. And I know a thing or two about young Clint; it’s a miracle he’s as good a man as he is.”

That piqued Philip’s interest; no one spoke about the prior Lord Barton except in the most general of terms, either Clint’s father or his brother, and Clint had only spoken of his childhood a few times. The Frasier name was invoked often and with much affection, but people only spoke about Clint’s mother and that was to praise her beauty and mildness.

“I know his father was a bully and a drunkard,” Philip admitted. “That’s why Clint left. And the rumors about his mother’s accident? From what I can tell they’re founded on fact. But Barney? I just know bits and pieces of gossip mostly.”

“Harold wanted his own Lordship; he was a brute of a man who governed by fear and intimidation. Barney had some of those same appetites, mostly for women and whiskey; he was a good enough kid, but the minute he became Lord, the family demons began to work on him. You know he ran off during the attack at the manor and left all the retainers and servants to die? And that the silver and family jewels disappeared with him?”

“I’ve heard stories to that end, but I don’t know what to believe.” For Clint’s sake, Philip hoped it wasn’t true; that Barney was out there somewhere, spending their inheritance, hiding like a coward … no Philip didn’t want Clint to have to deal with that reality. “Thing is neither of us trust easily. But that doesn’t matter. Whatever we can do to protect our people, that’s what we’ll do. We’re the front line; if we fall, everyone in the Midlands will suffer.”

“That’s all well and good, but this is a permanent step, boy. Bonded ain’t something you can do and then change your mind. Get married and you can live apart or petition for a separation; you do this, you’re tying yourself to him lock, stock and barrel. No going back.”

“I understand.” And he did. He’d thought about it on the ride here, about the way Lord Rogers suffered when Thane Barnes fell, the misery of Lord Xavier and Thane Lensherr when they found themselves on different sides. “Thing is, I wouldn’t be where I am right now without his support. He accepted me and has let me be what I am without question. If we had time enough … but we don’t, so there it is.”

“Ah, you love him then. Glad to know my sixth sense is still working right,” Singer said. “So that leaves the sex part.”

“I’m a private man,” Philip began as way of explanation. “But I’m learning. This bond doesn’t give me much choice.”

“Oh, I don’t think the bond is the only reason you get all hot and bothered; never seen two people with as much chemistry as you two. It’s a triple whammy – compatible skills, magic, and good old fashioned lust. Adds up to combustion. But don’t worry; I don’t think anyone has to watch the actual ceremony. Probably best if they’re pretty far away for safety. You can do the declaring and then take your time on the rest.”

“I agree with that,” Clint said. He stepped up behind Philip’s chair and slipped his arms around his husband. “Lust, love, and lightning in a bottle. How did I get so lucky?”

“You’ll think lucky when you’re dancing with forces you can’t control, boy,” Singer said good naturedly. “You’re going to send up a big old signal to anyone out there when this thing clicks into place. Best enjoy these next couple days; I’ve a feeling once you say ‘I do’ things are going to pick up speed.”

Thing was, Philip agreed with him. They were about to throw down the gauntlet … and change all of their fates.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tottle's Miscellany is a Renaissance collection of poetry  
> The Golden Legend is the most popular book of the Middle Ages ... it's a collection of saint's lives.  
> The Battle of Maldon is an Anglo-Saxon poem  
> Le Roman de la Silence is a lovely Medieval poem about a girl who pretends to be a boy names "Silence" so she can be a knight.  
> The Tale of the City of Good Ladies is written by one of the most popular women writers of the Middle Ages, Christine De Pisan.  
> Poetics by Aristotle is the granddaddy of all explanations of how literature works  
> The "Norton" that's so rare? A Norton Anthology of English Literature! (I'm an english prof so that amuses me to no end.)  
> Henryson's Testament of Crisseida is a Middle English Poem  
> The Flight of Red Hargrove is named after one of the original founders of the Howling Commandos, Red Hargrove. They were also called The Invaders in a couple comic book runs. And, yeah, Nicholas Fury Sr. was a co-founder.  
> The Death of the Red Sorcerer & The Skull Cycle are made up on my part based upon Captain America's origin story. I'm using the MCU version of Steve's Howling Commandos here.  
> The Lais of Marie de France are a collection of stories written by Marie in the 13th century. My favorite's the werewolf one, but the Lay de Fresne about twin sister's separated at birth actually has a wedding in it.  
> The Letters of Heloise and Abelard are another medieval love story about a nun and an abbot who fall in love.  
> The Lay of Tinuviel is straight from Tolkien. Great love story if you haven't read it.   
> The play Clint finds the poem in is a reference to Shakespeare's Much Ado About Nothing.  
> Dorigen's Tale is Chaucer's The Franklin's Tale and involves changing the weather and removing rocks from the sea with magic.


	14. Ringing the Bell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bonding ritual begins ... and all the pieces fall into place.

****

All the arguments and discussions were finally done; the decision had been made and they were ready to move forward. Time was on the enemy’s side; two days passed getting everything and everyone assembled in the right place. Clint’s patience was fraying, not that he had much anyway for spidery faded text and cricks in his neck from looking down. He didn’t understand Philip’s obvious love of the smell of old pages, but then few people could spend hours in one place, waiting for the perfect shot. To each their own, he guessed. Now that he was packing the saddle bags and readying the horses, Clint’s mood had improved, and he was able to put away the thoughts that pricked his conscience.

Were they doing the right thing? He couldn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t have all the pieces to this puzzle. Reacting wasn’t the best way to plan a campaign; too easy to make simple mistakes when he didn’t know the lay of the land.  Loki lied, that was an established fact, so why believe he was telling the truth about the bonding? He could just as easily be manipulating them into trying this too soon without all the right information. And that was really the heart of the matter. Clint had never been one to believe in love at first sight or heart connections or whatever romantics were calling it these days. Yet, here he was, declaring his love after knowing Philip for a little over a month. Lust, yes, he could go with that explanation, but this was much more than just a physical reaction, and there was no denying the magic part of their pairing.

“You overthinking things again?” Jessica asked, dropping a full pack with the others. “I can see your brain working; you scrunch your forehead when you think you’re not worth anything or good enough.”

“I’m entitled to worry about an ancient ritual that may cause a massive storm or just explode with me at the center.” He’d been expecting this, but his money had been on Carol being the first to broach the subject in her usual blunt way.

“That’s already a possibility as things stand. I helped clean up the study, you know. From what happened at the McCarter’s, I’d say learning how to harness your powers are at the top on our agenda.” She put her hands on her hips, and Clint knew she was getting to her most important point; that was Jessica’s tell. “My gut is telling me this is the best option, Clint. It’s not without risk but all the other paths are darker. You already know that, if you’d listen to your heart.”

Clint had long ago learned to trust Jessica’s instincts. She had a sixth sense about danger that had saved their asses many times. The more desperate the situation, the stronger her talent became. If she turned left in the middle of battle, Clint would follow even if it meant running right into a wall of swords.  “My heart’s a traitorous bastard that wants to knock Philip unconscious, drag him off by the hair on his head, and scream ‘Mine, don’t touch’ like a three-year-old. Not sure I trust it to give me rational advice.”

That got a smile and chuckle from her, and she relaxed, dropping her hands. “Sometimes, logic fails and all we have left is emotion. Not that I wouldn’t love to see you try that, but I imagine all you have to do is ask and Philip would go voluntarily.”

 “See? Not making any sense.” He’d run away without a plan, acting out of hurt and anger. If he hadn’t stumbled into Natasha’s life, he’d be long dead in some back alley. Emotional decisions had led his mother to marry his father and look how that had turned out.

“You’re not a sixteen-year-old girl swept off her feet by a handsome, charming stranger,” Carol tossed into the conversation as she led the horses out into the yard. “Nor are you your father either”

Yes, Clint thought, Carol always cut right to the chase. “They knew each other six weeks before the wedding; she thought he was the man of her dreams come to take her to the glitter of court life.”

“Do you see Philip as your way out of here?” Picking up a saddle bag, Carol started tying it onto the saddle of her horse, Chewie.

“I married him for money and protection,” Clint argued back, but with no heat. Carol was too good at reading him.

“And he knew that, so no comparison there. You didn’t expect to go all courtly love on him.” She teased. “Nor did you marry him for his magic or to be your bonded partner. Fate can be a real bitch, but she’s always right.”

“I’m not going to get a break from you two, am I?” His good humor kicked in and he let the ball of worry go for the most part. If Carol and Jessica were onboard then this ship was sailing.

“No. Now go gather up everyone else and let’s get on the trail. I don’t want to leave the timing to chance.” Carol patted Chewie, smoothing out a stray tangle of hair with her fingers.

“Always early,” Jessica started the old argument. “We’ll get there and have nothing to do but sit around and wait.”

“Better waiting than arriving late,” Carol came back. Clint left them to it; he could play the whole conversation in his head, and the familiarity of it soothed him. Just like old times, he thought and grinned. The world might hang in the balance, but they were still the same. And, damn if that wasn’t a comforting idea.

“You know Carol’s not going to let you two stay in that circle by yourselves,” Natasha said falling in beside him as he crossed the yard towards the house.

That translated to: I’m not letting you do this alone. Where Carol went with a blunt instrument and Jessica trusted her gut, Natasha was all logic. “I’ll be okay.”

“Kept telling yourself that, but we both know this is just as likely to blow up in your face as it is to work.” She wasn’t happy about the unknown elements; she’d merely shrugged at the love part of the whole equation, but the magic was her biggest concern.

“And thus why you need to be at a safe distance.” Up the steps, they stopped on the porch. “Nat, if we go up in a blaze of glory, you know that I named you my primary heir, right?”

She shook her red curls, her refusal plain. “Let’s talk about the real issue here; you’re going to end up naked in the circle and probably having sex. We’ve all seen you without clothes and can close our eyes, for the gods’ sake. You think we don’t know what you two have been up to? You forget to lock doors and ride off on horseback? Honestly?”

Heat flushed his cheeks. “Don’t say that to Philip. He worries about maintaining a proper level of respectability as a Lord, and he’s sensitive about it. Plus, he’s, um, pretty vocal.”

“Ah, well, then, we’ll just step out of sight discreetly so his modesty can remain intact.” She raised one eyebrow, her version of a tell – Natasha never gave anything away she didn’t want to, so it was a conscious gesture – and scanned his eyes. “You love him.”

Might as well accept the one undeniable fact. He might not like how fast it happened or the magical implications of it, but yes, he loved Philip Coulson. “I do,” he admitted. A spark jumped the gulf of space between them, static making Natasha’s hair rise in individual strands. A counter melody of mellophones faded after only a measure or two, and her green eyes widened in honest surprise.

“I’m not …” she started.

“No. We just … fit … as a team.” He needed to get Philip to explain. “Bruce too.”

She nodded; she’d already figured Bruce had a role to play. “We’ll talk about this later. Carol’s glaring at us and you know how she gets if we make her shift her schedule.”

Inside, he found Philip and Bruce going over one last text which was really the fourteenth they’d decided they had to investigate before they left. They were both standing at the desk in the study, the book spread out between them; Philip’s hands were on the desktop and he was leaning over. His eyes had to be tired; he’d been taking off his lens and rubbing them for the last few hours. Walking over, Clint stepped up behind him, close enough for his chest to brush Philip’s back and for his exhale to tickle the back of his neck, a neck that needed kissing. So he did, light little grazes of lips to skin. He didn’t miss the way Philip shivered, the slightest ripple that ran down his spine.

“Time to go.” Philip pushed up, right into Clint. They lingered for a few seconds, bodies warm against each other then parted. “Let’s do this.”

Clint knew his bravado hid insecurities; they’d talked about it last night, wound around each other beneath the quilts, words easier to form when they were little more than shadows in the room. Their confessions tied them closer, made them more determined and more secure. Together they were stronger, but that didn’t mean they wore blinders to the possible outcomes – just that they were ready to deal with whatever came their way.

Tense and quiet, they rode out of the compound at an easy pace; it was Jessica who broke the silence first, nudging in front of Carol, complaining at the slow speed. As expected, Carol took offense and the two were off on another one of their back-and-forths, made all the more humorous by the fact that Carol enjoyed an adrenaline rush just as much as Jessica. When Carol winked at Clint, he joined in, reminding them both of the time they were stuck in mud during a particularly bad rainy season in the Keys. The mood lightened and the jokes went on as they rode. Bruce told a story about a young clerk he knew who tried to turn water into wine and failed spectacularly. Philip had lots of tales of his brother Peter climbing towers and swinging across the courtyard at Tarian Castle, but the exploits of his sister Darcy made everyone laugh when he told of the time she faced down a very arrogant Lady of the court wearing nothing but her night shift and carrying chain of sausage links. She had been twelve at the time. Even Natasha offered up a very embarrassing tidbit about Clint that involved his distaste for baths and a garbage dump. The time passed swiftly, the approaching ritual not forgotten, but not weighing on them nearly as much.

The stones were as Clint remembered, towering up from their pockets of earth, grey in the late afternoon sun. Spots of moss mottled the surfaces, white and green and crinkled, sharp edges worn smooth from the wind and touch of human fingers. Clint had seen bigger circles with multiple rings – the one on Kaywiss Island still had the henge built up around it, only a small pathway in through the high circle of earth that came up to his shoulders. This circle had only one oval outer ring with a headstone tipped slightly towards the stone table, a horizontal slab of sandstone in the very center. Singer had told them the story that someone or something was once buried under the table, but any hint of whom or what was long gone, looted by thieves. Locals had to keep filling in the dirt to keep it from collapsing because robbers still dug under, expecting to find gold or jewels. Of the twelve stones that formed the outer ring, five of the cross stones, the ones that balanced on top of two stones, making what would have been six square archways, were still in place. One had fallen and cracked, the largest chunk lying inside the circle with a smaller part just outside.

The ground around the circle was free of undergrowth and the grass trampled down into a path that ran between the keystone and the headstone, passing beneath the southern facing arch. Three more paths, one each prime direction, led away from the circle and into the forest beyond. Someone had cleared the weeds from the stone table recently and baskets of harvest offerings still decorated the ground around the base of the headstone, only a few days old.

They sat about unpacking the items they’d brought, most designed to protect anyone outside the circle in case Philip’s magic or the ritual was stronger than the stones. Carol laid a ring of salt around the circumference; Jessica followed behind her with a dust that Singer had said would protect from undead incursions and wargs. Bruce drew warding symbols with a piece of white chalk on all the stones, and Natasha placed hex bags underneath every arch stone. Clint laid out a traditional wedding offering around the headstone of rowan branches, a dozen eggs, a glass of whiskey, and dried mountain heather all gathered from these very foothills. Philip’s job was to kindle a fire in a small brazier and start the lavender incense, unique to the Midlands where Coulson Hall was located. Both their heritages were represented as part of the union. The others spread out, taking their positions outside the circle, one on each of the paths, covering the compass points.

“Okay, here we go.” Philip knelt and touched the salt circle and a shimmer filled the air, enclosing Clint and him inside. Then he touched the dust; this one was hazy, like the thinnest layer translucent fog. Finally, he laid his hands on two stones, bridging an uncovered gap, closed his eyes and concentrated. Clint felt this one click into place, consuming the other two; the air turned iridescent, curving over their heads, muffling the sounds of the forest. He could still see the others, but they were slightly out-of-focus, wavy like in a poorly polished mirror. The light wind dropped; leaves blew past them, sliding over the circle as they tumbled along.

Like shutting a door, Clint grew warmer as the power stopped escaping, held in by the circle. It tumbled over his skin, setting his teeth on edge, and raising goose bumps on the skin of his arms. Philip rubbed his hands over his thighs, nerves getting the best of him. Loosening his belt and tossing off his vest, Clint took his place at the north end of the stone table and waited for Philip to stand opposite. They’d argued about who went first, going in the end with the tradition of the Lord opening the vows.

“I, Clinton Francis Barton, in front of my thanes and witnesses, declare for all to hear that I freely bind myself to you, Philip James Coulson, now and for the rest of my natural born life, to be my partner and husband. All that is mine is yours without hesitation or exception. I give you my heart, my mind, my soul, my very essence to share and hold. Storm nor illness nor whim of fate will come between us. I vow to remain faithful and steadfast until the end of time; you are me, and I am you, and never the two shall be separated.”

The specific words weren’t as important as the intent, so Clint had gone with the vow he was most familiar with. The air grew more humid, the autumn chill changing to a late summer heat inside the circle as he finished speaking. A thread of melody, easy quarter notes in a simple tune began to resonate in his heart.

Philip had chosen to go with an old vow from one of his favorite tales.  “How can I keep my soul in me when it yearns to touch yours? Why would I raise it high, past you, to other things? I once desired to shelter my soul among remote lost objects, in some dark and silent place, but now it resonates when your depths resound. Everything that touches me and you, aims us like a bow, drawing one voice out of two. The music holds us in its melody, oh sweetest song.” 

Clint breathed in the tension that was building around them, churning inside the boundary. Each phrase on an emotional playback in his mind, he was drawn in by Philip’s eyes, memories of the sea blue blurred with pleasure. He loosened the ties on his shirt and relaxed his hands, unclenching them and clenching them again to release the tightness. His cock stirred, half-hard already just from the promises made.

“I, Natasha Romanov, witness and recognize these vows as binding and permanent in the old ways.” She spoke clearly, her voice ringing through the clearing.

“I, Carol Danvers, witness and recognize these vows as binding and permanent in the old ways.” Carol was the second person who’d joined Clint, earning his trust.

“I, Jessica Drew, witness and recognize these vows as binding and permanent in the old ways.” Last of the three, Jessica had rounded out the trio, strong and flexible in her thoughts.

Then it was Bruce’s turn. “I, Robert Bruce Banner, Clerk of the Desert Order, declare these two souls bonded in mind and body. May the gods bless them and their future endeavors.  Amen.”

The power burst from them, rushing from where they stood out, slamming into the barrier; it bowed out, turned translucent, running up from the ground to the apex, a curtain that hid them from the outside. Then the energy rebounded, knocking Clint forward. He threw out his hands and caught himself on the stone slab; the rock was reverberating, humming in harmony with the melody that was playing in his head. Like a bow string, pulled back, muscles shaking with effort to hold it there, the circle was primed and ready for what came next. So were they; Clint was sweating, the heat oppressively humid now.

“Are you okay?” Bruce called; he was nothing but a misty outline as he moved to the very edge of the circle.

“We’re good. Ready to move on to phase two,” Clint called after Philip nodded his agreement. “We’ll give you a ten minute head start to get out of the danger zone.”

“If we don’t hear from you in an hour, we’re coming in,” Carol warned; the closer she got the clearer her form became.

“Two hours.” They’d had this argument earlier, but Carol never gave up.

“It’s okay,” Philip said, shaking his head even though only Clint could see him. “I know they’re not going far. I think I can …” He closed his eyes and concentrated; the barrier became crystal clear, and Carol stepped back, startled.

“Did you?” She asked. Philip nodded and then sent clouds crawling up the arc until they were completely enclosed and cut off from view.

“Our own privacy curtain.” Clint walked around the stone, but carefully didn’t touch Philip even though he wanted to desperately. “We’ll be fine. Off you go,” he said to the others.

“Don’t kill yourself,” Natasha said as way of farewell.  Clint heard them leave, sound having no problem piercing the veil.

“Yeah, I’ve got too much to live for,” Clint replied, his eyes on Philip and the nervous tick of his fingers against the stone. Philip was tapping in time to the music. Giving into the impulse, Clint untucked his shirt and pulled it over his head, folding it up and tossing it next to their pack.

“Don’t you dare ask if it’s hot in here,” Philip joked, trying to lighten the mood. He was undressing too, tugging off his boots, feeling less self-conscious now that he knew the others couldn’t see.

“Hey, I already know the answer to that. It’s just you.” Clint winked, shucking his boots and pants until he was standing naked in the middle of an ancient circle of stones getting ready to perform an untested spell and probably end up having sex within earshot of his best friends. When did this become his life? Not that he hadn’t gotten into some strange situations in the past – the brothel in Baisle jumped to mind for some reason – but this ranked as one of the weirdest in recent memory.

Rather than rely upon a written copy, they had memorized the ritual, taking it line by line to alternate the invocation. Clint set the small crock of gel on the stone and it kept rattling when his hand left it there. They’d decided discretion was best served by preparation, and Clint had talked Philip into doing it together, with a rather uninspired idea of taking the edge off, as he’d called it. Not that Philip had bought it, but he certainly didn’t seem to mind in the end. So Clint was loose and ready, and his libido was more than primed, aching hard as he stood here and looked at Philip’s lean body. A moment of doubt hit him; what did Philip think when he looked at him?  Muscles and scarred skin, reminders of his checkered past.

“You’re gorgeous.” Philip’s words drew Clint’s eyes up to his. “I can’t believe you agreed to be mine.”

He closed the distance between them and reached out, his fingertips lightly brushing the crescent shaped scar on Clint’s hip. A tiny moan came from the back of Clint’s throat at the trail of heat they left, and his cock jumped.

“You’re the crazy one. Take on this backwater hold when you could have so much more, anyone at court for your own.” Clint spread his fingers over Philip’s shoulder and ran them down his arm.

“Why would I want any of those pretentious twits? This is where I belong.”

The statement hit right into Clint’s heart; someone choosing him over riches or fame or power. He couldn’t stop himself from drawing Philip in for a gentle kiss, so close that their bodies pressed together and little jolts of static crossed between them. One kiss wasn’t enough and two led to three then four.

“We need to …” Philip murmured, but kept his hold on Clint.

“We should start,” Clint agreed, kissing him again.

The ground shifted beneath their feet and a loud crack of thunder sounded directly overhead. They stepped back by sheer force of will, breathing fast.

“Gods, okay.” Philip inhaled deeply. He offered his hands to Clint and they joined them, standing back to mitigate the sexual desire that was coursing through them. Locking eyes, Clint started the first line of the invocation.

“Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments.”

Rolls of thunder accompanied the crackle of lightning. They could hear the wind kick up outside the barrier. Inside, the hairs on Clint’s arms and back of his neck stood up, charged with the electricity that bounced between them. His cock hardened further, his mouth dried at the images that flickered behind his eyes of Philip, laid out before him, open and ready for him to sink into. He slid his hands up Philip’s arms and drew him closer.

“Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds or bends with the remover to remove.”

Philip’s voice shook with emotion, breaking slightly on the word remove. The storm outside intensified; the wind howled as it whipped through the trees and heavy raindrops pattered down onto the protective circle, running down the sides. The marks on Clint’s skin, where Philip had claimed him, burned down to the bone, claiming him below the skin, every part of him. As it went, the fire purified, erasing all the symbols of others who went before, every spot and scar and stain, both external and internal. A searing ache that was as arousing as it was painful, Clint felt like he was being flayed and laid bare. He had to drag his focus back to the ritual and spoke the next line.

“O no! it is an ever-fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken.”

The tempest outside matched the one in Clint’s core. Every impulse screamed at him to fight the invasion, to protect himself from this cleansing, but the pure bliss of Philip’s touch kept him from doing it. Instead he sank into the energy that orbited around them, filling the stone circle like water from the ocean, creating a riptide that pulled him under. He welcomed the pain as it closed over his head, giving up on breathing air, replacing it with Philip instead. Mouth opened and he drank Philip’s taste, their tongues twirling and lips pressing and parting until Philip remembered to continue.

“It is the star to every wandering bark whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.”

Clint wasn’t falling into Philip; they were rising up, leaving the earth behind. The stars surrounded them as the world fell away. Above the storm, he could hear the music of the spheres, a symphony of the universe, every planet and star singing together in full and perfect harmony.  His body split into pieces, his only tethers Philip’s hands on Clint’s body and his mouth sucking on Clint’s neck, leaving scorching pathways that wrenched him back down to earth, into the circle, hollowed out and empty now of everything but the beat of the music and Philip’s heart. Above the bass line, he sang the next words, no other option but to make them part of the song.

“Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks within his bending sickle's compass come.”

Phantom wargs gnawed on his arm and leg, a sword swept and left an angry red line down his arm, a burning poker seared his flesh … every memory of every time he’d come close to death replayed, and he could feel each one as if it was happening right now. Crying out Philip’s name, he strained for the healing touch of his hands; cool and soothing, fingers ran along his muscles, tracing lines of ownership as they went. They came tougher, bodies and minds, holding each other through agony after agony as they died again and again, only to be reborn in each other’s arms. Philip was crying, his tears soaking into Clint’s skin, tiny points that cured all his hurts and made Philip’s voice tremble on the next line.

“Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, but bears it out even to the edge of doom.”

The power was inside with them now, jagged purple magic that connected them as Clint laid Philip onto the stone table, just as he’d imagined, and surged into him. Stripped bare on the outside and cleansed on the inside, Clint sheathed himself in Philip’s energy and his body, a tight warmth that pulled him in and clenched around him. Philip groaned as Clint’s slick hands grabbed his hips to hold him steady as he began to stroke, snapping his hips, taking Philip as his own. They were the storm, sucking it down into their bodies, Clint’s thrusts the lightning, their sweat the rain, and Philip’s moans the roll of thunder. Philip’s legs wrapped around Clint’s waist and Clint leaned down, resting his weight on the stone that pulsed with them. In the eye of the maelstrom, Clint sank into Philip with each plunge, sharing his body, his heart, his very soul. Hours past, weeks, years, and Clint moved, stoking them to heights unheard of, a place they’d never been before. Then Philip shouted and came, energy rolling off both of them, rattling the stones in their ancient beds before curling back to consume Clint as he followed Philip over the edge. For a moment, Clint looked up and saw himself, sweat slicked hair, eyes squeezed closed, arms trembling from exertion; he was Philip, they were one, their orgasm shared and more than doubled. Pulling out, Clint realized he was still hard, his climax only a momentary reprieve, Philip in the same condition.  Between gasps, Clint whispered the first part of the conclusion.

“If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ … “

The stones levitated as they sang, a melody so old that the notes were words and the words were power. Only the headstone remained firmly in place beneath Clint’s hands as he moved, bracing himself, knowing that claiming worked both ways. Philip’s fingers spaced between Clint’s own, his palms on the back of Clint’s hands, his arms bracketing Clint, and his chest along Clint’s back. This time, Philip filled Clint, slotting into his body and his soul, taking all the empty spaces and rewriting them with his name. Slippery skin slid easily, and there were no impediments left between them; Philip melted into Clint, Clint welcomed him and felt his own muscles clench Philip tight. The music swelled, Clint’s single theme unraveling and knitting to Philip’s, their joint tune merging with the stones and the spheres above. Sharing one body, Clint saw Philip’s power engulfing them, felt Philip’s climax fast approaching.

“Phil,” He only had to think to be understood as they hurtled towards the pinnacle. Need and ache and love and magic became indistinguishable as his fingers began to sink into the stone. When he came for the second time, he tumbled into the rock, falling through the solid matter, down beneath the soft dirt, and into a tunnel, a narrow ladder that lead to a passage with long, low stairs made of stone. Zooming through, their consciousness taking the twists and turns, rock walls opening up into a cavern, ledge ending abruptly, nothing but darkness beneath. Far away, a glint of silver and royal blue flashed then Clint was back in his body, Philip’s arms around him, holding him so tight he could barely expand his lungs to get a breath.  Exhaling as he shuddered and came, Philip whispered the last phrase into Clint’s ear.

“… nor no man ever loved.”

No barrier could stand against the shock wave that rattled the stones and blast outward, rolling right through the circle without even a flutter of the smoky arc.  Expanding outward, the circle grew wider as the swell of magic widened …

+~+~+~+~+~+~

Jessica’s head snapped up. “Hold on to something,” she warned just as the wave hit. Leaping up, she caught a middle branch and swung, flipping on to the next tree with ease.

Carol stood her ground, leaning into it; the magic swirled around her, pulling at her clothes, and she lifted up, feet leaving the earth until she was hovering above the ground.

Natasha simply faded away, disappearing in the wind then rematerializing yards away.

Bruce growled, flexed his muscles and changed, growing in size as the energy passed through him.

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+

… and Philip stumbled back as power poured into both of them. It was an overture of horns and deep brass, Clint’s song turned into a thematic movement that stirred passion and the soul. Claiming marks spread the electric jolts through their whole bodies and back through their intimate connection.

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+

Bobby Singer saw Kevin flinch before he felt the force crest over him; the hair stood up on the back of his neck. Books levitated, spun and crashed back down before it passed.

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+

Melinda McCarter was changing one of Andrew’s bandages when he gasped and sat upright, spine going straight, hands clenched on the edge of the bed. Behind her, her grandson Hank’s wrench he was working with fell from his fingers; it clattered loudly on the stone floor as he dropped his head into his hands.

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+

Annamarie tripped and lost the load of clean sheets she was carrying when William appeared under her feet. A bolt of lightning crackled towards the chatelaine, and she covered her head in a vain attempt to protect herself. Theodore pushed her aside taking the brunt of the strike; it rolled off his skin like he was made of stone, the haze of electricity left hanging in the air.

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+

Samuel Wilson stepped out of his cousin’s shop, Luke at his side, both of them concerned with the dark clouds that were rolling in far too fast for comfort. Thunder crashed and a bolt of lightning jumped from sky to ground, striking the metal pole that held the sign for Frasierton Inn; it broke and flew towards them. Jumping out of the way, Samuel looked down and realized he was five feet above the ground, arms outstretched as if he had wings. Below, Luke held the heavy wooden placard in his hands as if it weighed nothing.

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+

Clint pushed himself up, the ground cold beneath his bare skin helping to clear his head. Philip was curled next to him, tremors wracking him. Scooping him up, Clint pulled him close and wrapped Philip in his arms as the music rose to the finale. “I’ve got you,” Clint murmured as he stroked along Philip’s spine. “I’m right here.”

                ~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+

Maria Hill was sweating despite the chill of the coming evening as she finished sparring with Peter. He always gave her a run for her money, his youth and unending energy a balance for her experience; he was a natural, twisting his body in ways that Maria never could even at his age.  Turning to block his attack, Maria felt the wind kick up and the ground shudder, a smattering of rain blowing their way. Then her vision blurred as she moved, dodging Peter’s sword when he flipped over her head, landing on the vertical wall of the keep’s outer bailey and clinging there.

In the solar, Darcy tuned out her friend Jane’s discussion of the book she was reading. Her stomach lurched and the world seemed to spin. All she could see was brown curls wrapped around her fingers and a dark shape looming over the mountains. She heard Philip saying some words, then shouting, his voice echoing in the darkness. But it was Jane, calling her name, shaking her, not her brother, when she opened her eyes.

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+

“I saw it,” Philip said. “In a cave, the one I’ve been dreaming of.”

“Stairs under the headstone,” Clint added, knowing exactly what Philip was talking about. “Buried, waiting for us to find it.

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+

Anthony Stark was asleep, his head on his workbench; the drawings and sketches of machines scattered about the room rustled and shifted as the magic passed over him, his fingers scrabbling against his chest as he dreamed of armor, two sets, an old and silver one with red and blue accents, dented and rusted, left in pieces, and another brand new one, red and gold with a glowing blue circle in the breastplate.

“Sir,” his butler, Jarvis, awoke him. “Virginia Potts is here, the young lady who uncovered your manager’s theft. You told me you wished to speak to her.”

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+

Janet Van Dyne was in the small garden behind what had been her mother’s rooms; they were now occupied by her guardian’s mistress, a cold woman who had nothing but pinches and smacks for the teenager. She should run away, would serve them right, but she wouldn’t let them win. This was hers, all of it – the castle, the gardens, the surrounding holds – and there was her father’s workshop to think about. She couldn’t let his inventions be suppressed or forgotten.

A fat, yellow and black bumble bee buzzed by just as the wave hit; she tumbled off the bench and fell flat on her back, staring up into the first blooms of witch hazel as bees and wasps flew away, agitated. A thump, then a concussive boom, and she rolled up and ran for the smoke pouring out of the tower windows.

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+

 “It’s like ringing a bell; everyone who’s the least bit sensitive will know.” Clint dragged his pants on, tossing Philip his. “We’ve got to move.”

“We need to get under that stone and follow it to the cave. For that, we’ll need shovels and equipment, torches, someone who knows the terrain.” Philip had his pants and one boot on before the others got there.

“Clint?” Natasha called.

“Stand back. Philip’s going to break …” Clint began. Philip waved a hand and the circle fell without a sound. “… I mean, we found a secret passageway. I think that’s where we need to be.” He turned to find his three Thanes staring at him. “What?”

“Your scars. They’re gone,” Carol said, nodding towards his exposed chest.

Running a hand down his side, he felt nothing but smooth skin. Philip’s mark tingled when he brushed his fingers across it, little purple sparks jumping into the palm of his hand.

“Well, damn,” he breathed.

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+

Prince Thor of Asgard watched as his men cleared the field of battle, severing the heads of each revenant’s corpse, a wizard following to cleanse the body of magical aftereffects. His blonde hair was loose and the breeze stirred the tendrils as the storm blew over the mountains, smelling of rain and magic. Fandaral stepped up next to him and turned his head into the wind.

“They’ve bonded; the power is much more than I expected,” he said. Sif’s messenger had reached them only late yesterday. “That does not bode well.”

“Aye,” Thor agreed. “I do not believe father’s decision to remain apart from the Midlands is the correct path; this only confirms it.” He tossed back his cloak and attached his hammer to its place on his belt. “I must go south, meet these Lords, see the situation for myself.”

“Queen Frigga would wish to extend an apology for Loki’s behavior,” Fandaral suggested. Thor smiled at his Thane and friend.

“Aye, that she would. And as I am already so close, ‘tis more expedient if I went.” He clapped the other man on the back, his strength pushing him forward. “You are wise in the ways of women, my friend.”

“More like I’m a good bullshitter, you mean,” the other warrior replied. “I have always had a hankering to see the Midlands; if we leave now, we can meet Sif at this side of the pass.”

Thor turned his gaze to the shrouded peaks of the tallest mountains; he did not have the skill of divination like his mother or sister or the eyesight of Heimdall, but a cloud passed, darkening the ground littered with the dead and a clarity settled over him. This was the right course; his destiny still awaited him.

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+

They gathered their things, leaving the offerings to appease the old gods, and struck off towards Singer’s at a good pace even though the rain was heavy and the trail muddy. Clint ran various plans in his head, thinking through all permutations and outcomes. They could ride back to Frasierton, gather a force, come back prepared for battle.

“And how will that work? Go down the tunnel one at a time?” Philip asked, Lola following just behind Lucky on the narrow path. He was right; this was a foray for a small group, easier to go unnoticed that way.

“Six or seven, mobile and fast,” Clint agreed. More than that, they would need to protect the manor and the towns, maybe even split the guard up, warn all the holders. Once Loki and whoever was pulling his strings cottoned to the fact they were close, Clint knew they’d take measures to stop them.

“They might target the other sites again.” Philip was thinking the same thing Clint was; send out small teams to different locations to throw them off the scent. There was no hiding now, just misdirection. Make them split their forces and get everyone prepared. Spread the word of the teams to someone like to blab it loudly to anyone who would listen.

“Garrett.” Clint couldn’t have agreed more. The Mayor liked to think he was a spider at the center of his web, but he was just a big gossip.

“Um, excuse me, but what are you talking about?” Bruce interrupted. “You do realize you’re making no sense, don’t you?”

Clint looked at Natasha who tilted her head in agreement. “A one-sided conversation is hard to follow,” she said. “Looks like baby soft skin wasn’t the only addition from the bonding.”

“It affected all of us,” Carol reminded them. “But I don’t feel safe discussing it out here in the open. Singer has protective spells; let’s wait until we get there.”

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+

High atop Mount Mitchell, the Red Knight paced, angry at the delay. No one kept him waiting. No one. Behind him, Lord Tarleton lounged on a bench, feet stretched out, eyes closed in an imitation of relaxation. A third man, in full plate armor, face mask closed and long green cloak dragging the ground, stood apart and silent.

“He never should have sent that spoiled child. Loki doesn’t wipe his ass without thinking of Daddy,” the Red Knight complained. “He doesn’t understand the idea of sacrifice or true pain.”

“Best he fails first, let us get the lay of the land,” Tarleton said as much to be contrary as to make any point at all. “Now we know better what we’re up against.”

“Of course you would think that way,” the Red Knight growled. “Let others do the work for you while you cower in your laboratory.”

“You’re welcome to take the next stab at it.” Tarleton glanced absently at the small mechanical square strapped to his arm. “Or our new friend from across the big sea here. Perhaps he wishes to show us his secrets.”

The stony floor vibrated as the torches sputtered in the fierce wind that swirled around the antechamber carved from solid rock. The armored Lord’s cloak was caught up; he pushed it back down but didn’t move. Tarleton sat up and put his hands flat on the wall, concentrating. The Red Knight cocked his head and listened.

“What was that?” The Red Knight demanded. “Some new deviltry?”

Tarleton shrugged and resumed his original position. “Probably just one of his spells.”

“That,” the armored Lord said in a heavily accented voice. “Was the bonding of a powerful mage to a Lord.”

“Indeed,” a fourth voice replied. “Barton and Coulson have completed the bonding ritual and are now virtually unstoppable by anyone but a sorcerer.”

Completely shrouded in a red cloak, face nothing but a screen of impenetrable darkness, the slim figure came to a halt. All three of the Lords immediately fell to one knee, averting their eyes.

“I can take them, my liege,” the Red Knight assured. “I can have ten thousand men ready to ride by tomorrow morning. Not a single timber will stand of Barton’s holding when I’m done.”

“And how will we find the shield then when everyone who might provide information is dead?” the figure asked.

“My people are working on a locator, my liege. We can find the resonance of the magic and track it down for you,” Lord Tarleton offered.

“And how well does this locator work? Will it find the shield underground? Up in the mountains? Underwater?” the figure asked.

“Allow me to send my magical constructions,” the armored Lord asked. “Let me show you how effective they can be.”

“Neither men nor machines nor magical tricks will suffice. Force is only useful against force, and it is too late for that.” Turning to a robed wizard behind him, the figured ordered, “Wake the sleeper and prepare specific instructions. His primary target is recovery of the shield. Secondary … kill Barton and Coulson. One or the other or both.”

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those interested, that's a Rilke poem I used for Phil's vows. Clint's are based upon the traditional Episcopalian marriage vows.


	15. Underground and under pressure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the clues they've gathered and some help from a child, the troop heads off to find the lost artifact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some serious writer's block lately. I powered through it, so sorry to be so late on this chapter. I know exactly where we're going to the break between this story and the next one, so sit back and enjoy!

_He ran, path shaking under his feet, skirting trees and dodging around bushes. Behind him, feet pounded, pursuit hard on his heels. The tunnel turned and opened into a large cavern, stones glittering in the light of the lantern. Before him, Phil’s shadow disappeared into one of many exits, roughhewn archways that led in all directions. The trees gave way to open sky and he skidded to a halt just short of the edge. Rough stone caught his boots, rocks bouncing down into the dark chasm below where a single light dwindled into the distance. Brown dirt crumbled under his toes, falling into the pool that spread at the base of the atoll. Beside him water poured over the edge of rock, a fine mist clinging to his hair and his skin._

_“There’s nowhere to run, Little Hawk.” Loki’s breath stirred the hairs on the back of his neck, but when he turned no one was there. “No target to hit.”_

_“Don’t let him get to you,” the new voice said. “You’re going to save him, save me, save us all.”_

_The man beside him smiled, white teeth in his handsome face, short blonde hair fanning as the wind whipped across the hilltop. Gleaming armor, silver with blue accents, caught the last rays of the setting sun._

_“It is mine.” Blood red armor, closed faceplate, angry words. “I will make you watch as my men slice down every one of your people.”_

_“Clint!” Philip shouted from below, almost lost in the darkness of the cavern. “I need you!” A figure all in black, swords blurring, forced Philip back to the edge of the pool; his foot gave out and Philip fell to his knees just as the silver came plunging down towards him._

_“So easy, getting you to do what I wanted,” Loki purred, hand gliding down Clint’s arm, leaving an icy trail in its wake. “The bond connects you … what he feels you feel. What you feel …”_

_Sharp and sudden, the pain sliced across him, his breath bleeding out of the open wound. Philip screamed, the sound bubbly and full of blood._

_“It’s not real,” the blonde said. “They fear your bond; doubt is the only thing that can come between you.”_

_“Clint.” Philip’s blood was on his hands, his body spread out by the water. The sword tip pressed into Clint’s back, the silver winked at him from the cavern wall._

_“Give it to me,” the Red Knight demanded. There was nowhere to run, just a cavern of darkness, a plunging waterfall, and endless sky._

_“You’re a Frasier,” the blonde reminded him. “And a hawk.”_

_“Philip is mine.” Loki looked up at Clint just as he raised his knife and plunged it towards Philip’s chest …_

His eyes flew open as he strangled back the cry that threatened to burst out. Philip’s hands were on his chest, keeping him from tumbling out of the chair where he’d fallen asleep.

“I’m here.” The flow between them was soothing, wearing away the sharp edges of the dream. Clint leaned down until their foreheads were touching.

“Bad dream,” he told Philip. “I was at the top of Hawk’s Leap, but I was underground and … it didn’t make sense. Both Loki and the Red Knight were there.” For some reason, Clint didn’t mention the other two men.

“Dreams are like that, condensed and overlapping,” Philip said, his hands grazing along Clint’s shoulders to help settle his breathing. Sitting up, Clint rubbed his eyes, trying to wake up.

“Nightmare?” Jessica asked as she came into Singer’s study, a cup of hot tea in her hands. All the women had given Clint a hard time about wanting to get right to work rather than resting, but there was so much to be done. He’d barely sat down to look at maps when he dozed off. The ritual had left him drained in more ways than one. “Here, drink this. It’s got valerian root mixed with the chamomile.”

“And will put me right to sleep again,” Clint retorted, but he took the cup. It was steaming, but not too hot to sip, and laced with wild honey for sweetness.  “Okay, you win. A couple hours won’t hurt, but there’s one condition.”

“Philip sleeps too,” Carol agreed from the kitchen doorway.

“I’m perfectly fine,” Philip protested, but he wasn’t. His face was haggard and pale, black shadows circling his eyes.

“You’ve been looking at the same map with your eyes closed half the time since Clint went under,” Singer said from his place behind the desk. “No use to us dead tired with your ass dragging the ground. Both of you get upstairs for at least four hours. Let the young ‘uns and those of us who had a nice nap while you were gone handle this for a bit. World’s not going to end if you close your eyes.”

Clint saw the resistance in Philip’s eyes, that need he had to control events and be on top of every detail warring with his exhaustion. The lightest tap of fingers on Philip’s wrist and Clint released a little pulse of power; Philip’s shoulders slumped and he sighed.

“Four hours, no more,” he capitulated, taking the tea cup from Clint’s hand and drinking a long swallow. “And if you find something wake me. I was making two stacks; the ones with nothing and the ones to go back to later for a second look …”

“I’ve been doin’ this more years than you’ve been alive, boy, I think I can figure it out,” Singer said gruffly, but with an indulgent smile. “Now, git.”

_Rocks skittered from under his boots; a sharp edge caught his sleeve, leaving behind a bloody scratch and torn linen. Voices shouted his name, near then far then nothing but an echo. The walls closed in as he careened around a corner, fleeing from the darkness that was just behind._

_“There’s nowhere to run, Philip” Loki said. “No book to read, no magic to cast.”_

_“Don’t let him get to you,” the new voice said. “You’re more powerful than you know.”_

_Gleaming armor, silver with blue accents, reflected the torch light, but his face was shrouded in the shadows of the coming night._

_“It is mine.” Blood red armor, closed faceplate, in the middle of the tunnel, blocking his way. “I will cut him down in front of you if you get in my way.”_

_“Phil!” Clint shouted from above, teetering on the edge of the hill, as a figure all in black, swords just a blur, pushing Philip forward._

_“So easy, getting you to do what I wanted,” Loki purred, an icy cold curling down Philip’s spine. “The bond connects you … what he feels you feel. What you feel …”_

_Sharp and sudden, Clint’s scream rent the air as he went over the edge, plummeting towards the pool and rocks below, and Philip felt his own soul being yanked from his body._

_“It’s not real,” the blonde behind him said. “They fear your bond; doubt is the only thing that can come between you.”_

_“Phil.” Clint’s blood was on his hands, his body spread out by the water. Silver winked at him from the cavern wall._

_“Give it to me,” the Red Knight demanded. There was nowhere to run, just a cavern of darkness and an insistent knock cutting through the sound of rushing water from the falls._

_“Remember what you are.”  The Blonde said. “Save us both.”_

Philip woke, Clint’s cool hand stroking his cheek. “It’s just a dream,” he said, his mere presence calming Philip’s fears. Breathing in deep, Philip pushed them down, smothering them with Clint’s melody, strong and sure.

“You were falling,” Philip mumbled, catching Clint’s arms to ground himself.

“From Hawk’s Leap. Where we need to go,” Clint agreed. For a long moment, they sat there, letting the bond work between them. “They’ve found something. Carol was just here.”

Not pausing to brush his hair or even look in the mirror, Philip shrugged on his vest and sword belt, stepping into his boots, glad that was all he’d taken off before falling into bed. When they got to the study, everyone was gathered around, the center of attention the Farley girl … and Philip realized he didn’t even know her first name, this child who’d lost her mother and brothers in the bandit attack. She’d been a presence in the house while they’d been researching, fetching food and disappearing quickly when too many people were around. Now, her brown eyes were dilated, her thin limbs trembling.

“It’s okay, sweetie,” Jessica was on her knees, gently holding the girl’s arms to keep her from fleeing. “We just want to know about your Mom’s box, okay? No one’s going to hurt you.”

“Okay, everyone who doesn’t need to be here, scatter,” Singer ordered, unfazed by the nobility in the room. “Philip and Jess can stay, but the rest of you go check the horses or something.”

With a quick dip of his head, Clint backed that suggestion and they backed out, Johnson and Rodriguez heading outside, Natasha and Carol off to the kitchen and Clint with Bruce out the front door. Kevin scuttled back downstairs, leaving the door open. Sitting in a chair a good distance away, Philip got closer to her level rather than towering over the girl.

“There, see? Just us,” Singer said, doing the same as Philip. “Your Maw would want you to tell us, Katherine. She sent you here to learn, right? So she knew it was important.”

“She said I was special.” Katherine’s voice was so quiet Philip had to strain to hear it.

“And you are,” Singer agreed, his usual gruff demeanor soft and gentle. “Tell me about the treasure box, Kit.”

“Gran gave it to her. Said weren’t supposed to let the boys know. Just us girls.” Katherine hiccupped as her eyes reddened and tears swelled at the corners. “A secret. From Greatgra and before, all the way back to Crazy Cat Lady Dugan.”

Philip wanted to lean forward at the name, but didn’t want to scare her, so he stayed where he was, clenching his hands on the armrests and catching Clint’s eye through the cracked open front door.

“Them’s the best kind of secrets. Did she say why she had the box?” Singer asked. Jessica let the girl’s arms go so she could rub at her eyes, reaching instead for a bandana to wipe the tears that were rolling down the girl’s face.

“To keep it safe ‘til it was needed. Like in the story, the one everyone gets wrong.” She screwed up her face and said in a sing-song voice, “The Dead quake, the Hawk quivers, the Sleeper wakes, and the Soldier shivers.”

“I know that one. It’s a kid’s game. One person is the maid and the others have to do what the rhyme says when she points at them. Isn’t the chorus something like ‘Listen to the Maid when she comes of age?” Jessica said.

“No, that’s wrong.” Katherine shook her head and started again.

The Dead quake, the Hawk quivers,

The Sleeper wakes, and the Soldier shivers.

Then comes the Mage to bring a new age.

 

The Spiders bite, the Wasp stings,

The Ant fights, and the Stones sing.

Then comes the Voice to give us all choice.

 

The Beast roars, the Scholar sighs,

The Falcon soars, and the Prince flies.

Then two becomes three to set him free.

The Lord hacks, the Gambler deals,

The Hunters track, and the Captain kneels.

Then stories will be told of bonds new and old.

 

  

Philip looked for a pen and parchment only to see Singer jotting down the words on the corner of another map. A hawk with a quiver? A mage and the dead? Those were all too obvious.

“Katherine, did you know that Clint – the guy who was asleep in the chair – his mother was a Frasier of Frasier Hall?” Jessica had stayed crouched down the whole time, maintaining eye contact with the little girl. “And that the Frasier crest has a Hawk on it?”

“Mr. Singer made me learn the crests of all the families,” she said, voice cracking on a tiny sob. “He’s Lord Barton, and he’s …” her eyes flicked over to Philip “… Lord Coulson-Barton. His crest is an open book with a staff across it. He has magic.”

“The Mage. Just like in the story. And guess what? I heard stones sing yesterday.” She was good with children, not talking down to her but talking with her. The little girl’s eyes widened in surprise.

“The Circle? Maw said that was a sign.” A whisper, more awe than fear; she chewed her lower lip, thinking about it.  “It’s in the yard, outside. I moved it after … Maw said to keep it near. I’ll show you.”

Excitement surged in Philip; new information and it was right under their noses the whole time. He waited until Katherine took Jessica’s hand and led her out of the house before he followed, Singer right behind him. Clint and Bruce had stepped away from the door and hung back as Katherine led them down one row then crossed over to another, winding her way barefoot around the side and deep into the towers of rusting metal to an old stone fireplace place with a tall chimney and a metal smoker attached.

“Good hiding place,” Singer noted. “I haven’t used this in years.”

Stopping, Katherine glanced around and crooked her finger, motioning Jessica down to whisper in her ear. “It’s okay. We won’t watch,” Jessica promised, giving the others a stern glance. “Everyone turn around.”

Philip did, stepping over by Clint and listening to the sound of rocks moving then a squeal as metal scraped across sandstone. As soon as it was in her hands, Jessica passed over a long box and Philip carried it back to the study, Singer rolling up the maps that were on the desk to make a clear spot. He eased the lid open on well-oiled hinges; inside was a cracked leather bound journal, a number of rolled up parchments and a pendant dark with patina. Singer had a pair of gloves ready and Philip slipped them on, aware of the age of the documents before him. The journal was the first thing he opened, yellowed pages brittle and cracking as he turned them. The letters on the page looked like words, grouped together in short and long strings, but they made no sense. Singer shrugged and gave a negative nod when Philip passed it over to him.

“Some kinda cipher. We need the key to break it. Kevin!” the old man shouted and the boy answered so fast he must have been standing right outside the door. “Boy’s got a gift for this kind of thing,” Singer said to Philip.

Kevin leaned over the desk and looked at the first page. “Very, very old Aglish lettering … here’s a thorn and an ash, see? … but this? It’s a watermark, and the paper feels like it has a high thread count. Very expensive for its time which is why it lasted so long. I can research the mark, find out who made it maybe, get us a date. The translation will take a bit longer.”

“Do it,” Clint said. He was standing just behind Philip, looking over his shoulder. Kevin bobbed his head in response, took the book in his already gloved hands and left the room.

The pendant was bronze underneath the green of the patina. Phillip’s fingers could feel a raised figure on one side, the other smooth. Turning towards the sunlight pouring through the window, he could make out the head of a wolf, mouth open in a howl. The edges were worn down, making the lettering that circled the edge impossible to read. The back was a circle inside a circle inside a circle. Something was etched inside the center ring, but green covered it, hiding the emblem.

“A howling wolf,” Bruce said, taking the pendant from Philip’s hand. “I know this symbol. Lord Roger’s elite guard, his most trusted thanes, used it. And the circles …”

“Roger’s crest. Red and white circles with a star in the center ring,” Philip finished the thought.

“I’ve got something that’ll clean that right off,” Singer said. “Just take a few minutes. Kit, take this and drop it in the tub downstairs; pour enough of the cleaning fluid over it to cover it.” She dashed off after Kevin with the pendant in her hand. “Take a look at this.”

He’d unrolled one of the scrolls, revealing a map of the Midlands or at least it looked like the Midlands. The changes were noticeable – some of the Southern Isles were connected to the coast with land masses, cities in the wrong place, some missing entirely – but the mountains were there and the Capital marked clearly. A series of Xs, probably once bright red, but faded now, dotted the map. Philip recognized two of them immediately.

“Hawk’s Leap,” he pointed to the nearby spot. “The Abbey near Frasierton. I guess that makes this tiny dot Frasier Manor. And here, the Howling Vale.”

“What does that say?” Clint’s finger hovered a place in the mountains where two marks were not that far apart. Spidery script was almost gone, the ink flaking off, only a shadow of the words remaining.

“For … Forbidden Lake,” Philip read, bringing the parchment between him and the light, making the words clearer. “Here set the free … no … Here fell the …” He lowered his arms, the shock of the words sinking in. “Here fell Truth and Freedom.”

“For all that’s holy,” Bruce breathed. The murmur ran the length of the room as each person realized what the mark meant. Philip’s mind reeled and he thought, of all things, about his father, sitting at his desk, season through season, reading, researching looking for these five words to prove his theory. The location where Lord Rogers went down, taking the fearsome red dragon with him into icy waters that froze them both.

“All these years,” Singer said. “And I’ve been as close as that.”

“The others must be sites of battles,” Carol said. “Look, here’s the Battle of Taruis in what is Stark land now.”

He could study this one map for years, Philip realized, learn so much about the past. But he could feel Clint’s push to move on, to see what else the box would yield up, as if Clint was speaking to him. The connection between them flared and Philip pulled back from his headlong rush into historical implications to remember the dangers that they faced. Carefully letting the scroll roll back into its original position, he laid it down and picked up the next one. Bruce made a sound of regret, but he didn’t complain.

There were four more items; the first was a heavier vellum scroll covered in writing, a list of charters given by royal dispensation and other legal delegation of authorities and funds. Familiar names popped up including Thane Timothy Dugan and Lady Margaret Carter. Philip put it aside for later; discovering who went where and what lands they were given would help determine where the other parts of Roger’s armor may have gone much better than any legend or story. Another map followed, one that covered not only the Midlands but lands across the sea as well, some Philip had never heard of. Then a sheaf of papers, covered with drawings of all types, people, places, horses, even the face of a dragon in one corner. They were weathered, one with singed edges from a fire. No signature of the artist, they were more like sketches done in haste rather than professional work. One face caught his eye, a man with a rounded helm, a bushy moustache, and eyes that held a twinkle of humor.  Just below was a woman, her hair unbound and curling around her face. A whole sheet was covered with the same person, a dark-eyed, dark haired handsome fellow who was caught with all sorts of emotions on his face from laughter to anger to what could only be desire.

“This is unbelievable.” Bruce was as excited as Philip had ever seen him. “To think these might be the actual faces of people from the stories drawn by someone who knew them.”

“He looks like my Great Uncle Liam.” Clint pointed to the man with the moustache. “There’s a painting in the gallery of him. A ginger hot-head from what I’ve been told.”

Laying them reverently back into the tin, Philip picked up the last piece of rolled paper. It slipped in his fingers, slick and semi-transparent, but not the least bit heavy. Handing the edge to Singer to hold, he slowly unrolled the unfamiliar paper. Blue lines crisscrossed the surface and color spread out in swaths. The crossroads was at the bottom, near Philip’s left hand, and the hills filled the rest of the map, elevations marked by different hues that remained brilliant after all this time. In the upper edge near Singer’s left hand was the curve of a lake high in the greys of the mountains. Beneath it all ran a series of blue dotted lines, tunnels, that shot across the map in all directions. Larger underground spaces were marked with tiny inked letters designating their use and their location. Access points were circles of different colors that probably meant something, but Philip didn’t know what nor did he give it much thought because his eyes fell on the circle on top of the headstone of the stone circle and the tunnel that curved north from there, an almost straight shot to the space marked “Assembly,” the largest of them all. It sprawled out under Hawk Mountain in the middle of the map.

“It’s an underground bunker.” Clint’s voice was awed. “Damn good hiding place, easy to hit and run and disappear. Genuis.”

“But there’s no Hawk Mountain,” Carol pointed out. “That’s about where … oh, gods. The Red Sorcerer ripped the mountain apart to get to them.”

“Hawk’s Leap. Yes,” Philip agreed. “The Assembly hall would have collapsed in on itself.”

“And the caves we were in are probably pockets of the old tunnels and spaces left on the face of the cliff,” Jessica supplied.

“He found them and tried to end it once and for all.” Clint’s hand slipped around Philip’s waist, both of them needing the touch. “From there it was a race to the end. Barnes was already gone; Rogers must have decided on an all-out push right at the Sorcerer.”

How had Rogers done it? If Philip ever lost Clint, it would be like ripping his soul in half. Clint already had his heart; now he had the very essence of Philip as well. “I can understand that,” Philip said, turning his head to catch Clint’s eyes. Yes, he’d run headlong into danger if someone hurt Clint.

“It keeps coming back to Hawk’s Leap. That’s it then. Let’s get the packs ready, things we’ll need underground, lanterns, rope, pitons, shovels. Enough food and water for at least three days, only what we can carry on our backs. I want to head out with enough time to still have sun when we get there,” Clint ordered. “Get in, get out, go home.”

“Packs are on the horses,” Natasha said with a smirk. “What do you think we’ve been doing while you were sleeping?”

“But the cavern won’t be there and the destruction probably blocked off some of the tunnels, maybe this one,” Jessica said. “There was definitely no access from those caves in the cliff.”

“If Dugan put something in there after Rogers’ death, there has to be a way in. If this tunnel doesn’t work, we can try this one or this one.” Clint pointed to two other access points. “At worst, we’ll dig our way through. Time’s running short, people. I’m sure Loki and his puppet master know about yesterday’s little ceremony. We need to move fast.”

* * *

 

 “Maw said that only I could do it.” Katherine had been insisting the whole way that she had to go with them, that her mother would want her to come. She’d even climbed up on Jessica’s horse and refused to get down. Now she was standing in front of the heavy stone waiting on them to give up. They’d tried looking for triggers or secret doors, tapping the ground around for rocks that might be covering the entrance, all to no avail.  “But it will be dark in there, won’t it?”

“I’ve got a lantern right here. I’ll light it up before we go down.” Jessica paused next to her and showed her the lamp on her belt; she was the only one really giving the girl’s statements any credence. Not that Philip didn’t believe her, just that he thought they could figure it out on their own.

“Will you go with me?” Katherine shifted from foot to foot, looking sideways at all the others.

“Of course,” Jessica promised. “If you want me to.”

“Come on then.” Her little hand reached for Jessica’s; as soon as they were touching, the two of them were sinking through the earth and into the stone.

Everyone reacted at the same time. Philip’s eyes widened. Clint jumped towards them, fingers closing through empty air. Bruce started, Natasha whipped out her sword, and Carol charged the stone. 

“Well, that answers that,” Singer said, crossing his arms and waiting.

“Answers what?” Clint demanded, anger bleeding over to Philip, making the magic dance between his fingertips, desperate to escape.

“Farley always brags that his wife is related to the Pryde family. Didn’t believe him, honestly. Says he’s a direct line back to King Stanley and his grandmother could shoot lightning bolts from her fingers, so no one listens to him.” Singer didn’t seem the least bit perturbed by the missing people.

“As in Lady Theresa Pryde?” Philip asked. Before Singer could answer, the headstone began to shake then lurched to the left. Grass and dirt folded as the stone tried to move; a hole opened up then the stone ground to a halt.

“Anybody bring oil? The wheel’s all gummed up with rust.” Jessica popped her head up through the space that was revealed.

Philip started to laugh; what was a kid who could walk through walls in the grand scheme of things? Natasha had oil in her pack which also didn’t surprise him. They got the mechanism working, a basic pulley system. Once the passage was open, Philip glanced down the ladder to the tunnel below, lit by Jessica’s lantern. Cobwebs dangled and tree roots wound through the walls; wide enough for one person at a time, this was obviously not one of the main entrances. It would be slow and dirty going.

“I’m in the lead; Carol, you’re the anchor. Philip, behind me, distance weapons in the front. Jess, you, Rodi and Johnson in the middle. Nat, wherever you think best. Bruce? You have a preference?” Clint shifted his pack more securely on his back and caught Katherine under her arms, lifting her free of the hole.

“Me underground in a tiny tunnel? Not a good idea.” Bruce shook his head. Philip could see the way the clerk was wringing his hands. “But in the back with Carol. In case I lose it you’ll have a head start.”

“You’ll be fine,” Philip assured him. “In fact …” he looked at Clint; they’d talked about this but neither had been sure. Now it seemed like the right thing to do. Touch wasn’t as necessary since yesterday, but it amplified their bond, stirring the power to stronger heights. Clint’s hand curved around the back of Philip’s neck then Philip reached for Bruce, fingers lightly resting on the back of his hand. Purple curled up and around Bruce’s arm, deliberate this time, meeting the green and spiraling together like two velvet cords. With a sigh, Bruce calmed.

“Natasha.” Clint offered her his free hand; she hesitated, her eyes guarded. With a jerk of his wrist, he waved her over, rolling his eyes. Her red flowed through the four of them, braiding into the rope of energy.  Clint shifted Natasha’s hand seamlessly to neck and reaching towards Carol and Jessica. “Ladies?”

They were less reserved; Carol went for Philip’s free hand and Jessica took Clint’s. The static that jumped from skin to skin was a vivid purple with small stripes of green and red mixed in. Black flowed back from Jessica, royal blue from Carol, twisting into a strong cord that bound them all together.

“Close the circle,” Philip said.

“Like a children’s game,” Jessica laughed. Even when they broke contact so everyone could take a hand, the power didn’t stop, phantom colors trailing after them. It was Philip and Clint who waited to the last, sliding their palms along each other as the last link.

The cords spiraled into the center with a clap of thunder, coalescing then shooting up into the dark clouds growing overhead. Hanging there, they spun until Philip realized more than six strands danced in the air. Very faint ones came from Rodriguez, Johnson, and Singer; a stronger one from Katherine. Still more, curling in from different directions. A mix of colors, a rainbow of shades from reddish gold to silvery blue to icy greys, some looping around them, others plaited into the center. Even the storm was part, the lightning crackling down to join the column of light. And then there were two lines, already joined, so dim to almost be invisible, drawn from out of the mountains. When they touched the rest, the light brightened, stabilized, blinding them for a few seconds before it faded away.

“Anyone know what that means?” Clint asked.

“Means you lot are just the beginnin’,” Singer said.

“Great.” Clint squeezed Philip’s hand then broke the connection and they all let go. “Let’s get through this first before we start thinking about the next thing, agreed?”

More? Philip’s mind jumped immediately to Fury and the others; if anyone had magic, it was one of them. Nick’s sheer stubbornness that got things done, Maria’s competent leadership, Peter’s genius and flexibility, and Darcy’s straight talk … yes, he could see them as part of this. But Clint was right; right at this moment, possibility was outweighed by immediate need and the open passage waiting in the ground. “Clint’s right; on foot, we’ve tripled our time to the Leap, so we need to get going.”

“You first, oh fearless leaders,” Jessica stepped aside. Her joke broke the tension, earning chuckles from around the circle; Clint moved over and swung down into the tunnel, taking the rocky stairs quickly. Philip took it easy, more worried about the age of the construction, but he needn’t have bothered; the stones were set securely into the earth, shallow and wide. Lighting his lantern from the one Jessica left sitting on the lowest step, he tossed a beam ahead; nothing but a long tunnel greeted him until the darkness took over. The floor was cobbled with smaller stones and evenly placed beams bracketed the ceiling. Surprisingly, the wood seemed to have held up well, a black substance painted over the grain. It was a small space; Clint, the tallest of the group, could stand up straight, but the walls were close and the ceiling looming over their heads. Once they were all down the steps, Philip felt like the rough packed earthen walls was nearer than before. He was too far away from Bruce to see his face when Carol pulled the lever and the headstone moved back over them, cutting out the light from above. Logically, he knew that Singer’s house wasn’t that far from the entrance but the finality of the creaking mechanism grinding to a halt hit a hidden fear he hadn’t known about – tight places.

“You ready to move out?” Clint was close, his head tilted so a lock of hair fell over his eyes, concerned. Clint’s fingers on his hand sent calming waves with just a hint of music, and Philip could breathe again.

“Ready.” Hefting his pack, he brushed a cobweb out of Clint’s hair. “When we get out of here, I’m going to need a serious bath.”

“I know where there’s a hot springs up in the mountains. I’ll take you there,” Clint promised, wiggling his eyebrows and making Philip blush, pushing his momentary panic even further away. “Grandad had a hunting cabin up there; we haven’t had a honeymoon yet remember.” He started walking, careful to avoid the various roots sticking out and pulling the webs out of the way, his hands and arms getting sticky within minutes.

“Can we all come?” Carol called from the back; sound travelled well. “A hot spring sounds good.”

“They want to have sex,” Jessica said. “That’s what a honeymoon is. A month romp after a wedding so there’s a baby nine months later.”

“Jess, dear, someone needs to explain how babies are made to you if you think Philip and Clint would come back expecting,” Natasha said with a laugh. 

“Yes, I know.” Jessica so easily got her back up, and Natasha loved poking at her. “But that’s the idea of a honeymoon originally.”

“I’d take a whole month off,” Rodriguez joined in. “But not if I have to get married.”

“Not even if it was that one guy, what was his name …” Johnson tossed out.

“One more word and I know where you keep your rock and metal collection. You’ll be diving in the well if you don’t stop.” The dark-haired warrior nudged the other man on the shoulder.

“They’re agates,” he replied. “Some of them quite rare.”

“Sorry, Ada, but you were making doe eyes at him the whole time.” Carol said.

“Wait, what? Did I miss this?” Clint egged them on. “He’d have to be a damn fine fighter, that’s for sure.”

“There is no one,” Rodriguez insisted. Philip felt a bit of sympathy for the woman, but he knew the conversation was keeping their minds off of the oppressing stillness of the tunnel. Clint, Natasha, and Carol had their lanterns lit, the rest conserving theirs for later, so shadows lurked between them, roots and webs turned to black arms that reached out and lace that wafted down. Joking turned back more of the dark.

“You were busy with a bandit attack and a new husband you couldn’t … still can’t … keep your eyes off of. A little busy to notice all our visitors.” Jessica took her chance to needle Clint; that was how they all showed they cared, teasing each other. Philip felt a pang, remembering the way Maria would push him; Peter not so much, but Darcy was the queen of quips. He missed them.

“Ah, was it one of the men who came with Thane Hill? Which one?” Clint neatly deflected the topic back to Rodriguez’s mystery man. “Were any of them gingers? Ada has a weakness for red-headed men.”

“Dooley?” Philip knew exactly who they were talking about now, one of Maria’s guards who’d come with her. Liam kept himself in very good shape, Philip knew that much. Far too young for Philip and not his type, but he could see how someone would be attracted to him. He had a good sense of humor to boot. “Bushy mustache, as broad as he is tall?”

“That’s him.” Carol confirmed.

“Can we not do this?” Rodriguez implored, but Clint talked right over her.

“Spill, Philip. Is he worth our Ada here? Or should we send him packing?”

“He’s unattached last I heard. If you don’t mind his stories, you couldn’t find a nicer prospect.” Philip dangled that bit of info out there.

“Stories? Do tell,” Jessica encouraged.

“Well, according to Dooley, his great-great-great-and-a-few-more-greats was part of Red Hargrove’s men and fought alongside Lord Fury’s ancestor. Depending upon the day and the audience and how much mead he’s had to drink, either Roger Dooley was the indispensable right-hand man who captured a she-beast or he was a villain who succeeded in almost single-handedly taking over Fury’s troop.” Philip reached up to brush a sticky strand away from Clint’s shoulder. “But then he also says another Dooley fought with Lord Roger’s men; that’s a pretty good one about pretending to be Dugan and getting into a real mess.” The web clung to his fingers so he flicked his hand to try and throw them off, easy at first then harder. A pulse of power flew out and whipped down the tunnel, turning the cobwebs to ash as it went. They all paused.

“Now that’s damn useful,” Clint said with a grin. “I was beginning to feel like the proverbial fly.”

“Remind me why Philip isn’t in the lead again?” Carol asked.

Clint grimaced back at her. “I should be jealous, Phil. They like you better than me.”

Before he could object to that statement, Natasha spoke up. “Well, the food has been better since he arrived.”

“And the roof doesn’t leak in my new room,” Carol added.

“He took over doing the books, Clint,” Jessica said. “Numbers and ledgers and ink that I don’t have to deal with.”

“The new workshop looks good,” Bruce agreed.

“I’m not sleepin’ in the stables,” Johnson threw in.

“And he’s going to talk to Dooley for me.” Rodriguez was more than happy to supply.

“Pretty damn perfect,” Carol agreed. “Except for the levitating books thing. That makes a mess.”

“And the thunderstorm. I still have mud on my boots,” Natasha said.

“Laundry duty,” Jessica complained.

“Construction noise all the time,” Bruce said.

“Hauling rock.” Johnson and Rodriguez spoke at the same time.

Philip’s ears were burning, blood flushing up his neck and into his cheeks. He wasn’t embarrassed, quite the contrary. For the first time, he truly felt like part of the family, just as much a target as anyone else. Clearing his throat, he said, “The wall’s Clint’s bailiwick, not mine.”

“Oh, I see how it is. Turning on me are you?” Clint slowed and nudged Philip’s shoulder. “See if you like sleeping alone tonight.”

“Right. You two are attached at the hip. That’s not going to happen,” Carol scoffed. Joking about his sex life … and the fact he had one was a surprise he’d never imagined having to deal with … wasn’t something Philip should encourage. It was impossible to hide, of course, especially with the rather loud and spectacular sex he and Clint had in all sorts of unusual locations. Still, openly talking about it? And yet, they were here, a ceiling of dirt above them, a blanket of trust wrapped around them. Just being in this together made them more than Lord and Thane and guards; like some epic quest from one of Philip’s poems, they were heading into a literal darkness as a team. What was a joke among friends or, maybe, family?

“I wouldn’t say it was the hip.” Philip answered before Clint said anything. Silence for a second, and then the laughter rang down the tunnel, Clint the loudest of the all.

They never slowed as the ribbing continued, everyone coming under scrutiny, even Bruce being gently poked about his shyness and alter ego. Philip was glad to see him opening up some, not turning away from the acceptance being offered. He still hadn’t had time to talk to Bruce about what had happened beyond more than a few short hints about books that contained magical traps and the cascade effect of one spell going off amid a collection of other items. He did learn that Bruce had been living alone for almost five years, keeping his head down to avoid unwanted attention. Now, here he was, virtually trapped underground, trusting that the people around him would be safe. That was a big step forward.

By horseback, the ride to Hawk’s Leap from the Stone Circle would have taken less than three hours; by foot, Philip expected at least eight, maybe nine. The tunnel was fairly level for the first part of the journey, and they were all energized, so they made decent time. Then the floor sloped up, the ceiling dipped, and Clint hunched his shoulder down, ducking his head to avoid scraping along the beams. That slowed them until a slide of dirt appeared before them, blocking two-thirds of the tunnel. Loose shale and dirt had rained down from where a timber had buckled; fortunately, the shovels made short work of clearing enough for them to get by. Sweat glistened in the candle light on Clint’s bare neck, his hair wet from the exertion. Not that it was warm, in fact it was cool enough to be chilly when they stopped, but there was little to no breeze, just static air. Within a few minutes, Clint had goose bumps along the knobs of his spine; with an absent motion, Philip grazed the skin below Clint’s hair, brushing away the beads of water and sharing warmth. Clint glanced back, a smoldering look hidden by his half-closed lids then went back to walking. 

At what Philip estimated was halfway, a black shape on the left wall materialized into a small ante-chamber, big enough for only a handful of people to be inside at the same time. Peering in, he could see a jumble of boxes and some metal items against the far wall.

“Hey, that’s a Sethman timepiece. I’ve only seen one of those in a museum.” Johnson started to stick his head in when three different hands – Jessica, Carol, and Philip – stopped him.

“You feel that?” Jessica asked the others. “Like an alarm bell in the distance.”

“More like the wind changing as a front moves in, that shift of pressure,” Carol said.

“A knot in the pit of my stomach,” Bruce offered.

Philip held his hand near the open doorway; little darts of purple static connected to his fingers, more the closer he got. “Magic. Makes sense. They were trying to hide this place, so they’d ward as much as they could.”

“I know that song.” Clint’s eyes were closed and he had cocked his head as if trying to listen to something. He hummed a few notes then broke off and shook his head. “I just can’t pin it down.”

The empty space of the doorway shivered, like someone putting their hand under falling water, the magic splitting then coming back together. “Do that again,” Philip said. Clint sang the notes this time; Philip took his hand and held it out with his own. This time the shiver solidified, curtain opaque in the flicker of the candlelight, sliding back into the walls.

“Guess that means Clint’s a descendent of Dugan after all,” Bruce mused. When the others looked at him, he explained. “I’ve read you could tune the wards, so it makes sense to use Rogers and his men so they could deactivate them. Since magic is unique to the user, stands to reason that Clint might have enough of a resonance to engage with the ward.”

“Can we go inside now?” Johnson asked, anxious to see what was in the boxes.

“Check everything out first,” Clint ordered to Jessica and Carol. Of the various items, Philip could feel strong vibrations from two metal strong boxes; Jessica pointed out three more things that made her hackles rise. Clint defused each one in turn, knocking off the rusted locks of the containers himself.

“It’s a storeroom or maybe where a guard would be stationed.” Philip stacked the stirrups he found against one wall. Most of the things were standard fare for traveling or underground exploring. A small trove of pitons for climbing, metal boxes of different sizes to keep flint and tender, bits for reins, and some spoons. Anything organic had pretty much disintegrated over the ages, leaving impressions of coils of rope where dust had gathered and tiny bits of what was probably canvas for bags and sleeping tarps.

Johnson gently picked up the clock that was no bigger than his hand, using the edge of his shirt to wipe away dust from the metal face. He turned it over and did the same to the back, rubbing harder before holding it up to a light. “A real Sethman. Look here’s the maker’s mark.”

“Wind it up, see if it works,” Jessica encouraged him.

His eyes widened in horror. “No. I need to clean it first; there could be rust and dirt inside that would mess with the gears and workings.” Unslinging his pack, he wrapped it up in a pair of clean underwear, packing it inside his bedroll for protection.

“Look at this.” Rodriguez held the top of one of the boxes; inside were four knives, two short swords, and a brace of throwing daggers that gleamed up at them. “They’re not even rusty after all this time.” She started to take one, but hesitated looking over at Clint who gave her a nod of approval.

“You don’t think this is …,” Bruce said, running the pad of his finger along the shaft of one.

“Toledo steel?” Philip finished the thought.

“The King has a sword made of it,” Natasha had the daggers in her hand; their sheaths had fallen apart, but the silver was still bright as she tested their weight. “You can buy it in the Capital, if you have the money.”

“Take one,” Clint said to Johnson who as staring down at the box in wonder. “The owners aren’t going to miss them.”

Natasha pocketed the matched set. The knives went to Carol, Jessica, Johnson and Rodriguez. Bruce declined one of the short swords, passing both of them over to Philip instead. “You’ll get more use from them,” he said as Philip fitted his palms around the smooth hilts. “I’m just as likely to break it over someone’s head.”

Of the other warded items, one turned out to be a money chest with coins that no one would take in payment now but might be bartered off to collectors. Nobody suggested melting them down for the gold and silver. Another was a pendant, much like the one they’d found in the box back at Singer’s house, the smooth concentric circles easier to see with the five pointed star etched in the center one. The other side was also a star, but was raised and took up the whole circumference, only one ring around the very edge. Philip pocketed it to examine later, putting it with the wolf’s head pendant they’d brought along.

To Clint’s surprise, a long box overlaid with magic held arrows made not of wood, but of very flexible metal. Picking one up, he immediately passed it over to Philip; when both of their hands were closed around it, Philip felt the energy spill over, Clint’s music mixed in with another tune, something that stirred a memory in Philip that he couldn’t pin down. The grin that spread across Clint’s face was contagious, and Philip didn’t fight the tug when Clint pulled him in for a quick kiss. Magic arrows were worth more to Clint than any amount of coin.

The item they were looking for wasn’t in the room. Eventually, they’d been through everything and Philip’s inner clock ticked on, reminding him that they needed to be moving. Bruce and Johnson had to be dragged away from their examination of a tin soldier with a wind up key on its back they’d found in what looked like a box of personal belongings; they reluctantly left the too big toy with promises that they’d come back for it later.  By the time they got going, Philip calculated it was close to midnight and he wasn’t sure how much further they’d make it before the need to rest caught up to them.

Their undoing was a rockslide with larger boulders, one that would take serious muscles to clear a crawl space through big enough for a person. Enough chinks were there to see the tunnel continued on the other side. Clint called a halt for sleep and even Carol sighed as she sat down, wiggling her feet out of her boots long enough to empty the pebbles that had collected there and dig her thumb into the arch of her left foot a few times. Without conversation, Clint got out one blanket for the two of them; Philip offered to take the first watch, but Carol and Johnson won the draw to be followed by Jessica and Natasha. With the rocks at their backs, Clint settled beside Philip, curling along his left side, leaving Clint’s left hand and Philip’s right hand open to grab their weapons. Dirty, smelly and far from comfortable, Philip was sure between his aching feet and the stone digging into his back that he wouldn’t sleep, but Clint tucked Philip’s head into the crook of his neck, tightened his right hand on his waist, and Philip was gone before Clint could drop more than one kiss in his hair.

_The tunnel yawned before him, roots reached out to trip him, cobwebs entangled him as he tried to run from the dark figure that loomed behind him, ever closer._

_“Phil!” Clint was shouting. His hand was just fingertips away, reaching down like a lifeline._

_Below, a dark chasm spread, an endless night of nothingness._

_“It’s okay,” the blonde man said, looking up to the top of the cliff, standing beside Philip on the edge of the frothing pool. “You can’t stop the fall, but you can trust your bond.”_

_The swords moved so fast they were a blur in the lantern’s light, advancing on him. He had nowhere to go, his back to the rocks, his way forward blocked by a man with no face._

_“Forgive me, Clint.” All his magic was gone, drained away, flung out in the air to catch the wind._

_“Always,” Clint murmured, his body warm and comforting. “Be sure and catch me.”_

_A flash of silver, a hint of music, the swish of the sword … and then Philip was falling, flying, reaching … and the world went black._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's Kitty Pryde there making a guest appearance in Bobby Singer's house with Kevin Tran. And Rodriguez gets a first name!


	16. Sugarman Done Fly Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the action works towards a climax, and Clint and Philip must face their dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Clavicule of Solomon is a legendary grimoire that supposedly existed during Biblical times. It's named in the apocrypha. The title of this chapter refers to Toni Morrison's Song of Solomon, an excellent read if you haven't been introduced to it yet.

Philip woke with a sense of urgency, a cold little knot sitting in the pit of his stomach that made him queasy. Breakfast was a quick bit of jerky and sips of water, a quiet mood settling over them as they rolled up their blankets and stowed them away. No one talked, not even any joking between Jessica and Carol, just a determination to get moving as soon as they could. Clearing the rock slide took time and with each passing second, the knot tightened, only loosening again when they opened enough room to squeeze though and were walking again. They’d burned through the first set of lanterns, so Philip passed his over to Clint who set a faster pace than yesterday. With a wave of his hand, Philip cleared the cobwebs.

The floor of the tunnel turned upward, a steady assent that occasionally turned steeper but was mostly an easy grade. Within an hour, they began to pass side rooms, smaller sizes at first then larger. Many were empty except for the remains of furniture – beds, shelves, chairs, tables – but they found a space that had once been a pantry and a connected room with a fireplace carved into one wall. A quick perusal was enough; there was nothing there to grab their interest until they came to a much larger opening. Inside was a room with a large table, chairs and benches circling it, another fireplace, and two antechambers that set the hair on the back of Philip’s neck on edge.

“Oh.” Bruce’s reaction to his first glance in one of the smaller spaces told them there was something very special inside. “Philip. Look.”

Staying back from the opening, Philip directed the lantern’s light; he could make out shelves and realized they were filled with books of all shapes and sizes, maps and parchments curled into crates. Closed drawers promised even more treasures. A prickling of magic stopped them from going inside; the energy from the second side room was even stronger and Philip had to put his hand on the rock wall to discharge the sudden burst of power that responded in harmony.

“Magic books?” Clint asked; he lightly placed his hand on Philip’s neck, helping to bleed off the steady flow of static that was building up. “How would a book survive down here? Isn’t it too damp and cold?”

“Good question,” Philip responded. “Maybe a spell of some sort to preserve them?”

“I read that the Archive of Libgres has rooms that stay the perfect temperature all year round in the pre-war part of the building,” Bruce offered. “No one knows exactly why.” He was peering intently into the shadows, aiming the lantern. “Philip. That’s a _Clavicule of Solomon_.”

Philip started, stepping forward without even thinking about it; Clint’s hand tightened, his fingers pressing along Philip’s throat, a gentle squeeze. Purple energy danced down Philip’s arms, jumping between his own fingers. Easing away, Bruce’s eyes flashed green in return.

“Everyone else out,” Clint ordered and they all immediately obeyed. “We’re going to back away slowly. Bruce, take some deep breaths.”

“You don’t understand, Clint. That book is probably the most important set of magical spells ever written down. It’s a myth, the grandfather of all grimoires.” Philip was arguing, tensing his muscles to pull free from Clint’s grasp.

Bruce had clenched his hands hard enough for his fingernails to bite into the skin and draw little beads of red. “Philip, if we go in there now, we might disturb the spell keeping it intact. We’ll come back, examine it, do it right. It’s survived this long; it can wait a few more days.”

He knew Bruce was right; with a sigh, he leaned back into Clint’s touch. “I need …” Before he could finish, Clint was there, kissing him, both hands curling around Philip’s face. The touch grounded him and he turned the magic bubbling inside into the nearest item, the burned out lantern on Clint’s belt. It flared to life, bright sunlight flooding the chamber, giving chase to all the shadows.

“Wow, that is a handy side effect,” Natasha said from the doorway. “Can we say that Philip lights up the room now?”

Embarrassed, Philip ducked his head, but the relief he felt was immeasurable. Clint was grinning at him. “When this is over, we are so going to figure what all you can do. I mean, really, if a kiss does this …”

A sharp needle of fear pierced Philip’s chest, a wave of wrongness spreading through his body.

“Boys, we need to go.” Jessica’s voice was deadly serious. “They’re here.”

Everyone moved fast, back out into the tunnel, leaving the books behind. They couldn’t run but they did pick up the pace, going as quickly as they safely could. Magic, Philip assumed, somewhere nearby, churned the knot of dread into a boulder size sense of unease. Room after room passed with only a quick glance as they plowed ahead. At the first split of the tunnel, Clint paused; Jessica pushed her way forward and unerringly turned right, taking the lead. They clumped closer together, Carol glancing behind them constantly, listening for noises other than their heavy breaths and footfalls. The tunnel widened, became smoother, the rooms larger until the wall of the left side fell away completely, inky darkness and eerie echoes taking its place. The path split again, one trail leading off to the left, curving down, hugging the wall of a large cavern. Another spun off to the right, climbing upwards with long wide steps.

The brightness of the lantern let them see vague outlines of the chamber before them, a floor several stories beneath them and a roof above littered with stalactites. The room had probably been circular at one time, but the far side was gone, the earthen wall folded inward like a crumpled piece of paper, rocks piled haphazardly, collapsed in a shower of dirt. The downward path was sheared off just a hundred feet or so beyond the split, victim of one of the slides, a jumble of rocks spilling over it.

“The Assembly, I presume.” Philip said. They all took a couple steps out of the tunnel. Jessica and Clint went to the right, Johnson pushing past Philip to scout ahead a little. Natasha stayed with Philip, both looking down to see more of the chamber. “Paths come in on this side, some on the ground level, another between where we are and there. There were probably more on the other side.”

“Up takes us to the top of the Leap, I imagine,” Clint surmised. “A quick exit. I think we should …”

The rumble was ominous, shifting of stones and a vibration beneath their feet. Even as the ground began to crumble, Philip reached for Clint, stretching for him, but it all happened too fast. He was falling, the light of the lantern receding above him, empty space below him, darkness rushing up. His shoulder hit the wall and pain flared; he tried to focus his energy, to stop his fall, but there were only seconds.  Crying out Clint’s name, Philip didn’t remember hitting the ground.

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“Phil!” Clint dove for him, reaching out to catch his husband, but he was too slow. Eyes wide with fear, Philip disappeared into the darkness, and only Jessica’s hands on his belt kept Clint from following after him.

“Stop,” Natasha said. “The whole thing’s unstable. One wrong move and …”

In slow motion and yet far too fast, Natasha’s arms flailed, and she tumbled over the edge, the path sliding down with her. Carol leaped forward, but was too late; Bruce and Rodriguez yanked her back on the other side of the now broken walkway.

Clint sank down on the hard packed earth, his mind awhirl. Flashes of his dream, Phil in darkness, the sense of falling, ran through his consciousness. Phil’s marks flared, burning into his skin. Lost, that’s how Clint felt, as if he was the one tumbled through the shadows.

_“Use the bond.” The blonde said, his hand warm on Clint’s shoulder. “You can sense him.”_

Closing his eyes, Clint opened up to the flow of energy. It took a few moments, but then he felt a presence, not aware but alive, a frantic heartbeat slowing to a resting rate. Phil was unconscious … and not dead.

“Clint. Clint,” Jessica shook him, and he snapped back to the present. “Get up.”

He heard it then, the shifting of rock, clattering as something moved beneath the fall. Scuffs of distant footfalls, dragging rather than walking. Jessica aimed the lantern over to the far wall just in time to see a hand emerge from the pile of earth.

“They’re behind us!” Bruce called, shining his light back down the tunnel; he cocked his head to listen. “At least four, maybe more.”

The dead man’s head came up as he pulled out of the destruction; when he was free, he didn’t start for them, but began picking his way downward. Clint whipped out his bow, strung it as fast as he could, and snapped off an arrow that hit right in the throat; the undead fell back, but another hand rose from the dirt next to where the first one landed.

“They’re going after Phil,” Clint said.

“I’ll hold the entrance,” Bruce said. “Carol?”

“On it. We’ll take the ones after Phil and Tasha.” She and Rodriguez began edging out onto the downward path, using their swords to test the ground in front of them.

Another vibration and cracks appeared in the path behind Clint. “Get to the tunnel!” Clint called to Jessica and Johnson. He felt the give of the path as he flat out ran, just making it thru the opening as the last part of the trail disappeared.  Before them, the tunnel ran sharply upward. They had no idea where it led; Phil had the map.

“We can’t stay here.” Jessica glanced over her shoulder into the tunnel’s blackness. She tugged Clint’s arm. “We need to move.”

When her intuition was at work, Clint trusted her implicitly. Turning away from the cavern, he began to move fast, swinging his bow over his shoulder and drawing his sword. The three of them were heedless of the cobwebs and roots that brushed against them, Jessica’s worry driving them onwards. Just around the first bend, another tunnel branched off and another man shambled into Clint’s lantern’s circle of light. Far enough away, they avoided the reach of his short sword and stayed in the main path. They didn’t slow until they came to a fork with three options; Clint headed for the one that kept going up, but Jessica grabbed his elbow, taking the far left one that dipped down before rising again. Every time they started to slow, the sounds from behind them drove them on.

He couldn’t afford to think about Philip, cold and unresponsive, lying down below. Or Natasha. Damn it all, Natasha. Falling into the cavern, maybe hurt and in pain. She’d defend herself from any comers, but what if she had broken something or hit her head? Terrible scenarios flitted behind his eyes, and still he kept going, following Jessica, Johnson behind. He didn’t notice the purple sparks that trailed from the end of his sword, heard instead the way their footfalls formed a bass line for their breathing, a kind of music in their escape. It was a familiar melody, old like the mountain they were inside, and Clint found his own tune added to it, circling into a round that keep repeating. The cobwebs lessened the roots fewer and less intrusive; they opened a lead on their pursuers as the way seemed to close behind them.

Muscles just started to burn when they hit the collapsed ceiling, two large slabs of granite amid the dirt. They’d need a fulcrum and a strong stick to shift them and even then it would take two maybe the three of them together. And they didn’t have that much time.

“Try digging the dirt out. I’ll hold them off.” Clint turned and hefted his sword, ready for whatever was coming. He set the lantern so light spilled all the way down to the last curve.

“Oh, for the gods’ sake, at least we can try.” Jessica bent her knees and caught the edge of the topmost stone; it lifted as if it weighed nothing. Everything shifted, opening enough room to crawl over to the other side. “Go on.”

Johnson went first, Clint climbing through as the first revenant came into sight. The stone blocked the lantern, dropping the dead into darkness as Jessica pulled the stone behind her.  Fingers scrabbled against the rock, low moans coming from the other side.  Now that the moment was gone, Jessica paled and looked down at her dirty palms. Questions floated in her gaze as she started to shake.

 “Did I just…”

The rock started to slip, dirt raining down.

“Later. Run now.”

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The shadows moved, arms outstretched, flowing across the stone towards him. He could hear Clint shouting his name, see the light retreat as he fell. Energy pooled around his body, cushioning him from the worst of the impact, dragging him safely inside his head as he hit, just missing a sharp edge.

In the twilight of unconsciousness, he floated up and out, hovering over his body; from this perspective, he saw the revenants waking, the blue of the magic circling their corpses, sinking into their bones. He followed the spindly trail and was suddenly out into air. Tracking it across the grass, he saw a mounted group of men, horses pawing at the ground just inside the tree line. The man in black, his face covered with a mask, swung down and stalked to the entrance, fluid and graceful but as cold as winter. The full weight of glowing blue eyes looked straight at Philip, aware of his presence.

With a gasp, Philip woke, aware of the aches and pains in his body, his eyes blinking open. There was a tearing ache in his shoulder and a shooting stab in his knee. But he was alive, somehow.  All around him was dark, only a light bobbing high above; as he lay there, he heard the sounds of steel on steel, the grunts and curses of battle floating down.

He squeezed his eyes shut then opened them again, trying to make out more than dark shapes around him. What if there were revenants and he couldn’t see them? What he needed was light. No, that would just make him a target. He needed to be able to see … With a deep breath, he calmed his racing heart and pulled the energy around him, thinking of what he wanted. It warmed his cheeks and his eyes watered, then the rocks around came into relief with a strange green outline. Philip could see the contours of the cavern floor, the tumble of stone and dirt, the black openings of tunnel mouths. It wasn’t like using a lantern; this took a moment or two to get used to, just the glowing edges telling Philip where things were.

One of the shapes moved, shadow detaching and becoming arms, color shifting to blue. Pushing up on the side that didn’t hurt, Philip managed to sit up in silence, biting off any groans of pain. His left shoulder sent spikes of pain along his arm, fingers too numb to grasp the hilt of his sword. So he eased out one of the short weapons with his right hand and lifted up into a crouch. His knee didn’t like it, nor did his bruised hip, but he moved behind one of the bigger slabs of stone, putting it between himself and the shambling figure that didn’t seem aware of him yet.

More movement– two more undead crawled over the debris. All three seemed unfocused, searching for something, so he waited, letting them pass him until they were within striking distance. When no more joined them, he reached out with his senses and touched the dead, looking for the ball of energy that animated them. Finding it, he imagined capturing it in his palm and squeezing tight, crushing it until the glow died and the bodies dropped, strings of control severed. He felt the twang as the magic was cut off, heard the sounds of them falling, just before an explosion of red slammed into Philip’s head. Staggering back, he dropped his sword and grabbed his head, trying to hold the pieces together as a thousand psychic daggers were jammed into his skull. His whole body was open to the attack and his heart stuttered in its rhythm, the relentless waves of agony too much. He opened his mouth to scream but only a tiny whine and sob came out.

Lost in the assault, Philip didn’t hear the man approach, couldn’t take the time to care about anything but fighting off the pain. The first touch of his fingers was cool relief, ice pushing back the heat in his head. Slowly, synapse by synapse, the pain receded, tamed by the other’s magic.

“You didn’t think you could pull the same trick twice, did you?”

Philip’s sight was blurred, the tears still streaming from the corners of his eyes. A soft cloth wiped them clean and he could make out the face before him. Dark hair, long, unkempt and unruly. Eyes glowing blue as a frozen lake and just as clear as untracked snow. A mask covered the bottom half, his nose and mouth hidden beneath. Skin as pale as alabaster, fingers frigid. A walking corpse up close, frozen and yet able to talk and understand. He wasn’t like the others, mindless; intelligence haunted his eyes and a sense of sadness hung upon him.

“Who are you?” Philip’s lips chattered as the cold flowed further into his chest and down his arms.

“No one of importance. You, however, are Thane Philip Coulson, a very difficult man to kill.”

“Lord Philip Coulson-Barton.” Yes, he still had his sword in his right hand, and the cold was helping with his wounds; he could make a fist with his left.

“What?” That took the shadowy figure back. “You are ….” He curled his hand around Philip’s neck, burying his icy fingers in Philip’s hair. “… bonded?”  A tendril of something foreign wormed into Philip’s brain, searching through his memories. Thoughts of Clint flooded over him – smiling at him, determined to succeed, hot and sweaty, eyes heavy with pleasure – and he frantically tried to shove them back, lock them away from the prying. He was not going to put Clint in danger if he could help it.

“Does it make a difference?” Philip stirred the magic inside of him, the energy heating him up and working into his hands.

“No.” A flash of silver and the tip of a slim rapier rested in the vee of Philip’s collar bone.  “Interesting, though.”

Philip lashed out, knocking the blade with the flat of his palm and discharging energy in a quick burst. Rolling to the side, he lurched up and drew both swords, adrenaline rushing through his system as he countered the other man’s lunge.  His opponent was faster and definitely more agile, with excess energy. Back and forth, they traded blows and all too soon Philip’s left hand began to tingle; one strong knock and the sword tumbled out of his numbed fingers. It skittered away and he couldn’t reach for it without twisting his hip, so he danced away from the next swing, trying to change positions.  Philip knew some of the best fighters in the realm – some of them were above him right this minute – and when he’d admit it to himself, he knew he was damn good. But this man was better and it was only a matter of time before Philip’s injuries caught up with him.

“Enough. I must end this before it begins.” The rapier sliced across Philip’s middle, cutting the leather but not hitting skin, then it sank into his knee; his leg doubled up and he went down.  In Philip’s vision, the other man’s sword left a blood red trail as it arched downward.

*Clint.* Philip didn’t close his eyes, looking up into the eerie blue of his murderer’s. *I’m sorry.*

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The tunnel just ended and they came to a halt; Clint’s chest heaved as he sucked in deep breaths. There was no mechanism that he could see, just smooth walls and an indentation that the lantern fit perfectly. This tunnel was wider, obviously a major egress for the cavern they’d just left. Stones studded the wall in a decorative pattern, more places to set lanterns spaced along the length of the tunnel. As his frustration rose, fear slammed into Clint, knocking him to his knees. Pain radiated from his shoulder, his hip and his knee, a dull echo. In his mind’s eye, he could see the sword swinging, falling without anything to stop it.

“Phil.” He breathed the word out loud, curling his arms around himself, letting his hand fall over Phil’s mark on his hip and the one on his face. Digging in, he poured every ounce of energy through the bond, begging Phil in his head to stay alive.

“We can’t stop.” Jessica knelt beside him and gently turned his face up. “They’re still behind us.”

“I know,” Clint agreed, forcing his brain back to the problem at hand. “Find a way.”

“Here.” Johnson brushed aside cobwebs and pressed a seemingly random stone; it moved and revealed a lever that he yanked up.  A rumbling with clanks from an ancient chain sounded and part of the wall began to swing inward, a circular stone pivoting. Beyond was more underground, but wan sunlight filtered in.

Jessica stared at the other man. “How did you know where it was?”

Johnson blushed and stammered, “I-I-I don’t know. It just made sense, you know?”

“Later we are all going to talk.” Jessica warned. “Once we’re on the other side, we’ll swing it shut. I don’t think dead men can figure it out. Clint, get your ass through there.”

They slipped through and Johnson brushed his foot over one of the cobblestones on the floor of what turned out to be a cave to make the door swing shut again. Clint let the wall hold him up as he closed his eyes and let the bond take him. Breathing, danger, a flash of silver.

“We need to get the hell out of here and back to the others,” he told them.

For the first time he surveyed the half destroyed cave; if there’d been an exit, it was long gone. But light came from a small opening in the ceiling, where the ground had given way over the centuries without enough support. When they climbed up, they could see a jumble of roots crossing the already small space, leaving little room to crawl through. Jessica made it, folding herself almost double to pull her legs up and out. Then they worked from top and bottom to widen it enough for Johnson and finally Clint to clamber up. Branches of the bushes that had grown around the base of a large ash scratched his face and hands as he fought his way through.

More trees towered over them, an old growth stand of mixed hardwoods and evergreens. Fallen needles made the ground soft under their feet. Between the boles, Clint caught a glimpse of an expanse of grass, browning as fall progressed, colored leaves scattered by wind. A faint path wound from the curve of mountain, leading towards Hawk’s Leap.

“We don’t have the map.” Jessica leaned back against a tree trunk, her face a study in frustration. “There’s got to be other ways in; there were four other tunnels between here and the cavern.”

“They could lead anywhere,” Johnson argued. “I think our best bet is to head towards the Leap. I know you searched those rooms before, but did you look for secret passages?”

“What about that one passage that went up, the one you didn’t want to take? It had to be close to the surface. If we could figure out where we were …” Clint stopped because therein lay madness. Standing here, above ground, he had no sense of even which direction they’d come from much less how far they’d come.

“Clint!” Jessica yanked his arm, pulling him out of the way; the arrow embedded in the trunk of the ash, quivering from the moment.

“Ah!” Johnson had turned towards Jessica, and the arrow hit him in the right side of his chest instead of the left. Jessica spun and caught him before he fell.

Clint looked and saw the figures coming through the trees on their horses; one had familiar black hair and glowing eyes, his regal bearing giving away his identity.  “Go,” he ordered. “Take him and get out of here. I’ll buy you time.”

“No,” Jessica started to argue.

Clint put a hand on her face; energy spread across her skin. “Find another way in. Save Philip and the others.”

She nodded as tears shaded her eyes. Slipping an arm around Johnson, she took off at a run, carrying him along with her, moving the opposite direction of the leap. Clint walked out into the clearing, drew his bow and notched an arrow, waiting as the party emerged from the cover of the forest. Loki on a black monster of a horse, another man carrying a shield with a skull head and octopus legs as a symbol, and a yellow cloaked figure that could only be Lord Tarleton. They were working together, all with the same magic in their eyes. Tarleton made perfect sense; he’d long been searching for a way to unite the peopled lands under his rule; his battle with the Men of Letters had a long and bloody history. But the Red Knight, Overlord of the Third Kingdom? He wasn’t known for working with others; in fact, the Struckerites believed in the complete superiority of their own race. Everyone else either became tools for their domination or were wiped out.

“Lord Barton.” Loki’s voice oozed with contempt. “How nice to see you again. And so soon.”

“Stop your sophistry, Loki,” the Red Knight spat. “Kill him and let’s get on with this. You talk too much.”

“You are a malicious little demon, aren’t you?” Loki turned his gaze to his companion. “Rushing headlong into battle as if brute force solves everything.”

“I’d do better than you have so far. You had your chance.”

“Stop it, both of you,” Tarleton said. “I will end this.” He took a long silver pole out of a holster and aimed it at Clint, his fingers pulling a curved trigger like a crossbow. The projectile flew at Clint, faster than human eyes could follow and yet he saw it coming as if in slow motion, plenty of time to roll to the side and let it pass harmlessly by. Tarleton’s face contorted in surprise then anger. “You did not tell us he was a mage!” he shouted at Loki.

“Oh, my, it must have slipped my mind.” Loki carelessly shrugged. “And now that he’s bonded, it’s much stronger, isn’t it Clint?”

“You are a slippery little shit,” Tarleton was livid, his cheeks growing red.

“He can’t evade my sword.” The Red Knight charged forward; Clint loosed the arrow, not bothering to watch as it sank into the tiny gap between chest plate and the spaulder. Instead, he spun and ran, feet following the almost invisible trail. Horses’ hooves thundered behind him; he wouldn’t get far but he was going to make them work for it. Once in the tree line, he wove in and out, ducking behind bushes as arrows slammed into trunks and skittered across the forest floor.  Moving steadily upward, he jumped and caught the edge of a rock ledge, rolling over and back up without stopping. Each footfall became part of the rhythm of his song, all his energy focused on staying ahead, staying alive. He kept it up for longer than he expected, weaving new themes into the music, Phil’s then Natasha’s then all the others without thinking about it. They rode big war horses, the fast turns harder for them to follow; Loki was probably missing the beautiful palfrey he’d left at Barton Manor. She’d have made short work of the roots and slippery stones, keeping up with Clint much better than the thick legged animal Loki was riding now. 

A sudden burst of energy filled Clint, and he broke out of the tree line into another expanse of withered grass. The small path he’d been following joined with another that saw more use, weaving along the bank of the creek which rushed up towards the edge of the Leap. Just like in his dream, there was nowhere to go, only the blank sky, the sound of the waterfall, and his doom coming up behind him. He could feel the static growing around him, the music hurrying to its crescendo. Wrapping the music and the power around him, he stopped where he could see the pool below, turned and faced them.

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A silver dagger embedded itself in the attacker’s arm, deflecting the blow, and causing him to curse in an old, dead language. While he was distracted, Philip lashed out with his good leg, kicking him in the knee because it seemed fitting, then rolling away, out of reach of his swing. Resting on his good shoulder, Philip pushed up in time to see a second figure, cloaked in vibrant red that matched her hair, spin around and land a solid kick to the man’s midsection. He jerked, looking for her, and Philip realized that he couldn’t see Natasha at all as she landed a double punch and danced back out of reach.

A growl came from behind Philip; out of the tunnel mouth, two wargs prowled, the blue of the geas spell surrounding them. They loped right towards him, sniffing the air and baring their teeth. He needed his magic, his swords gone; summoning the energy, he tried to hold up his left hand but he could barely make it move.  Pain overwhelmed him and the power sputtered; he tried again, digging deep. All he found was throbbing muscles, so he used the aches instead, funneling them and his own frustration into one word.

“Go,” he commanded. The wolves stopped, whined, and pawed at ground, noses bobbing as the two spells fought each other, sorcerer against mage’s will. The blue flickered, dimmed … then grew stronger as the wolves lunged at Philip, teeth snapping. He didn’t know how he managed, but he rolled out of the way; they landed, their paws skidding on the stone, turning for another run.

He’d ended up facing the wall and a faint flash of white light caught his attention; higher than head level, the outer edge of something gleamed. Dreams crashed his brain and he acted without thinking. Every ounce of pain and his remaining energy he channeled into his voice.

“Come.”

Nothing happened. Fetid breath washed over him as a set of teeth sank into his shin. He could have sworn the other warg gave him a toothy grin as its partner held him down.

A roar echoed in the space and the floor vibrated as something heavy landed; smaller rocks flew up and larger ones shifted. Bright, vibrant green that pulsed with energy, Bruce snatched both wargs and flung them against the wall. Bones cracked as they yelped little barks of pain then slid to the floor.

Philip had never seen Bruce’s berserker; he was still Bruce, same hair, same eyes, but arms bulged and his chest rippled, his vest and shirt hanging open to accommodate his new size. Intelligence shone in those brown depths, along with raw anger that burned hot and green. Pivoting, Bruce braced himself and caught another wolf as it leaped from the shadows; he threw back his head and echoed the howl of the animal as he spun it by the leg and broke its spine.

Turning his attention back to Natasha, Philip saw her attacker had managed to draw blood, the wound leaking red energy. It didn’t slow her down; she was poetry in motion but she’d met her match in the shadowy man who was fighting her now, stroke for stroke, with his eyes closed. They were literally dancing, making nicks and cuts, occasionally catching each other, but Natasha was holding her right arm at an odd angle. Eventually, he would see an opening and take it with that wicked rapier point.

Philip needed to try again; freed from worry of attack, he focused, dragging every last bit of energy. He reached down deep until the well was tapped, and when that wasn’t enough, he found the connection to Clint and tugged; the music that tumbled through the bond was jangled and too fast, a cacophony of fight and flight. But Clint was there, and that gave Philip the grounding he needed to raise his hand and unleash all the power.

“Come.”

The white shimmied, wiggled back and forth, finally springing free, and spinning in an arc around the room. The shield decapitated a revenant before it took two steps into the cavern and knocked a warg onto the rocks, leaving it scrabbling for footing. Then it flew right at Philip; left hand flew up to protect himself, but the shield’s straps slipped over his arm as it settled in place. Lightning ran from the shiny metal ring through Philip’s whole body, its warmth finally displacing the chills that still lingered. Pain faded as the rocks around him began to shake, the shield pulsing against his skin. A variegated thread curled up his arm, red, white, and blue like the color of the rings, mixing with the purple of Philip’s own.

“Philip!” Natasha shouted. She backpedaled with a cry of pain, the rapier slapping her broken arm with a loud crack.

It all happened simultaneously.

Philip stood up, the energy crackling around him, and flicked the shield towards the shadowy assailant.

Natasha grabbed the man’s wrist to take him with her into a controlled fall, her fingers curling under his sleeve and above his glove, skin on skin. Red energy flared and spilled over chasing the icy blue out of the man’s body. His hand snapped up and caught the shield even as they were tumbling to the floor.

Philip felt it in his core, a doubling then tripling of the strands, an exponential increase of power.

Bruce shouted and bent back; his muscles grew even larger, ripping the seams of his shirt.

“How?” The man asked, staring at Natasha first then eyes flicking to Philip. They were still blue, but not of the spell, just human. “This is impossible.” He turned the shield, gazed at the concentric rings, and ran his gloved fingers along the edge. “Steve,” he breathed.

_“Everything is possible,” the blonde said. “Save him for me. I know you can.”_

Natasha was still staring at him, rubbing her hand along the curve of her hip. “Who are you?” she asked. “What have you done to me?”

“I’m just my master’s tool,” he answered. “But you, all of you … find him. This world is going to need him.” He looked around as if seeing the cavern through new eyes. “There’s a tunnel buried just there, under the edge of the fall.” He pointed. “It will take you out near the pool. Hurry. Loki and the others are waiting; if your bonded has emerged from the complex, they’ll be on him.”

No one stopped him as he walked to another opening, pausing beneath the archway. “When I let go of the shield, I won’t have long before the spell takes effect again. Block the entrance behind me.” He directed the last to the Berserker who was watching everything.

“Wait.” Philip had to try. “Let me help you. I can remove the spell, free you. You can be there when we find him.”

Surprise flitted across the man’s face. “No. You don’t understand. I serve a different master now, and I’ve done things, terrible things. I’m not the man I was. I’m not really a man at all anymore.”

“James.” Natasha stepped forward, something open and vulnerable about her. “Please.”

Eyes closed briefly as if steeling himself then Thane James Buchanan turned up the corners of his mouth and said, “Catch.”

The shield whipped back in a perfect arc; she caught it with her right arm. Magic blasted outward when her bare skin touched the metal, red and blue and white and black circling her body, her hair rising to stand on end. Like a whirlwind of power, she was on the inside as it washed across the room. Philip felt it pour into him, his aches driven away as his body mended and his own reserves were replenished. Then it was gone, rushing back into Natasha; she dropped to one knee, the shield’s edge balanced on the floor in front of her. Without a word, Bruce picked up a large boulder and began blocking the tunnel, half tossing the rocks into a pile as he worked quickly.

“Everyone alive?” Carol asked as she sat Rodriguez down on the floor, landing a second later. “We’re clear up top. Clint, Jess, and Alan made it into the tunnel at least.”

“Wait. Were you flying?” Natasha asked. Her good humor was back in her voice; Philip was learning that was Natasha’s way of dealing with the strange was to act like she was taking it all into stride.

“Were you just glowing?” Carol shot back. She’d brought her lantern down with her and Philip realized he could still see faint colors around everyone. Carol was a vivid royal blue and Rodriguez was a pale yellow.

“Anyone see my swords?” Philip said, standing up.

“Son-of-a-bitch took one of my daggers,” Natasha complained.

“Well, in his defense it was buried in his shoulder.” Philip saw the edge of one of his and picked it up. “Bruce, can you find that tunnel he was talking about?”

“I am not Bruce.” The Berserker walked to the rock fall and began clearing the area in question. “Bruce is weak and filled with doubt.”

Interesting, Philip thought just as he saw his other sword.  “Then what do we call you?”

“I am usually called beast or monster.” He shrugged his wide shoulders and shifted a large stone. “Or people just scream.”

“Well, screaming isn’t a proper name.” Carol began moving the smaller ones. “So we’ll have to come up with something better.”

“Clint’s in danger. Names later.” Bruce smiled and there was a feral edge to it. “Loki is waiting for me to smash him.”

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“Are you finished?” Loki drawled, those eerie blue eyes watching Clint’s every twitch.

“Nowhere near,” Clint declared. At the end of everything, he still had his mouth to rely upon. He could buy time for the others, let Philip work his magic, keep them talking as long as he could. “In fact, I’m just getting started.”

The Red Knight laughed. “You’re done for. There’s nowhere to run. We kill you and weaken the mage so the Sleeper can take him out.”

“Then you’ve seriously underestimated Philip Coulson. Killing me is only going to anger him, make him come after you. Whatever your master told you, Philip is ten times more powerful. He’ll flay you where you stand with just a word.” Clint didn’t have to pretend to be certain because he truly believed what he said. “I’m the weak cog, I’ll admit. But Phil? He’ll blow the top off this mountain to get to you.”

“He has a point.” Trust Loki to cause mischief; it was ingrained in his bones. “Death has been known to drive a bonded mage crazy. Look at Rogers. Barnes’ fall didn’t stop him, it energized him, made him reckless enough to attempt that last assault. He’d have never risked it without the push.”

“So what are you suggesting? We just let Barton go his merry way? That hardly achieves our goal,” Tarleton complained. Clint could see the cracks widening between the three, the way their own personalities were exerting themselves despite the magical reins tying them down.

“I vote for that option. I’ll even promise to let you live,” he promised.

“I think I might like you,” Tarleton said, eyeing Clint closer. “If you weren’t in my way, that is.”

“Stop talking to him!” the Red Knight ground his teeth in frustration; he’d broken off Clint’s arrow and punched it through. A sluggish trail of blood was leaking down his breastplate. Still, he drew his sword and nudged his horse closer, clearly intent on running Clint through.

“Personally, I think we should turn him rather than kill him,” Loki said in that lazy way that angered everyone around him. “Send him back to the mage to do our work for us.”

Another wave of energy bubbled from the ground, through his feet and up his legs to his chest. He could sense Philip’s power and the others’, knew something had happened. The charge built even more until he could feel it in the back of his throat, behind his eyes, coloring the world and threatening to burst forth. The blue of the geas spell now surrounded all three men, but underneath Clint could see other colors, Loki’s deep green, the Knight’s blood red, and Tarleton’s garish yellow. Glancing down, Clint saw his and Philip’s purple around his hands and the tendrils of the others’ curling up his legs. An itch began to build between his shoulder blades, burrowing into his back along his spine.

“That is the first good idea you’ve had, Princeling.” The Knight reined in his horse and looked thoughtful. “Are you capable of that spell?”

Undisguised hatred passed over Loki’s handsome face; his voice grew sharp and cold. “To control a mere mortal is nothing. I could take you now and you’d do my bidding without a word.”

“Try it and I will smite you before you can finish.” The menace in the Knight’s voice didn’t faze Loki; in fact he seemed pleased by the lack of control.

“I can see why he chose you. Such a savage to do the bloody work. I prefer a more delicate touch.” Loki was goading the Knight now, seeing how far he could push him. If Clint had any options, he would use their fractures as a way to escape, but the back of his heels were already on the edge of the cliff.  Tarleton, Clint noticed, was perfectly happy to sit and let Loki do the work of agitating the Knight, biding his time. He never took his eyes off of Clint.

“Delicate as in useless,” the Knight scoffed. “I’d rather let the scientist here have his way before you. I’m sure he has a device that can subdue this weak human.”

“Indeed I do.” Tarleton confirmed.

“Well, by all means, please show us how your mechanical ideas can turn our friend to follow your will.” Loki inclined his head Tarleton’s way.

Tarleton was a barrel of a man, a big head but long slim fingers. His yellow cape billowed behind him, the mist from the falls beading on his dark silver armor. Swinging off his horse, he rummaged through his saddlebag and pulled out what looked like a blue crystal surrounded by some gilded gold work. From his other pouch, he took out an elbow length section of polished wood and proceeded to screw the adornment on top of the small staff. Turning, he walked to Clint, held the instrument out and aimed the point of the gold to the middle of Clint’s chest.

“Seems like a magic wand to me,” Loki said, a smug smile on his face. “For all your talk, I expected something that belched smoke.”

“You shall see,” Tarleton replied.

The crystal glowed blue, swirls of other colors spiraling inside it. Clint’s eyes flitted to Loki; the Prince winked at him, one side of his mouth quirking up in a fleeting smile. Then the metal touched him and the energy coiled in Clint’s chest released in a blinding flash of purple light. Tarleton was blown backwards, armor and all, tumbling ass over heels and landing in an inelegant lump of thrashing limbs. The Red Knight’s horse danced back then reared upwards when he jerked the reins to control it. Only Loki was prepared for the onslaught; his hair flew back but he held his horse in place.

This was Clint’s chance. He darted to the right, hoping to grab the reins of Tarleton’s horse and make his getaway. The reins were almost his when hands caught his vest and dragged him back; Loki spun him around and bent towards him, face close to Clint’s, a strangely intimate pose, as easily a prelude to a kiss as a thrust of a dagger to his heart.

“Your power has grown, Little Hawk. But you won’t fool me again.” His hand splayed on Clint’s chest and icy phantom fingers spread out. “And your bond won’t save you this time.”

*Clint. I’m coming.* Philip’s voice reverberated in his head, beating back the cold. Clint struggled, kicking out and trying to break Loki’s hold but he was far stronger than Clint. Then he stilled, reached inside of himself for the music, all of their notes and instruments to fight the spell. The power was strong, so many of them now combined to a full orchestra of skills and talents. Loki growled in displeasure, narrowed his eyes, and his magic surged.

_“You are a Frasier, remember,” the blonde said. “You know how to fly.”_

Pulling up his feet, Clint slammed them into Loki’s chest, pouring the music out through his soles, knocking the air out of Loki’s lungs. His hand loosened and Clint broke free. Two running strides and he didn’t even pause at the edge, just leaped off, threw out his arms, and fell.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that's James "Bucky" Barnes making his first appearance, so the blonde who keeps talking to Phil & Clint shouldn't be too much of a surprise, but we won't see him until the second part of this trilogy. 
> 
> For those keeping score, here's the talents revealed so far:
> 
> Natasha -- invisibility (just what a spy needs)  
> Carol -- flight (because Captain Marvel has to fly!)  
> Jessica -- strength & spidey sense  
> Bruce -- berserker fighting ability and super strength  
> Johnson -- mechanical knowledge (hey, just cause he's an OC doesn't mean he can't have a mild talent)
> 
> The others will be revealed in time.


	17. The Hawk and the Mage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint takes a leap of faith ... and finds Philip waiting for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter in this section of the story. When I started this, my idea was a quick medieval magic story with Clint & Phil. Never imagined it would grow into something this all encompassing; my muse had ideas of her own, it seems.
> 
> The next installment will continue Phil & Clint's story with the addition of two more viewpoints of another bonded couple moving to the forefront as well. Those two have insisted they be next despite my own ideas of where to go, and who says no to a Berserker?
> 
> I know there's plot left hanging here ... the next story will pick up immediately following this one, don't fret. It might be a few weeks before I get it started as I'm going to do some world building and planning first (like making a master list of characters and talents to post along with the second part. Maybe even a world map).

The end of the tunnel was collapsed, wet, and muddy, but there was one big boulder that, once removed, made the rest fall. Water misted over them as they crawled out, not exactly behind the falls but close enough to be soaked as they picked their way along a very narrow path.  Far too slow for Philip’s liking, they negotiated around to where the shore of the pool met the cliff face.

*Clint. I’m coming.* He hoped Clint was safe in the forest, looking for another way in.

“There’s a path up just along the south side of the cliff face,” Rodriguez said. “I can show you.”

Heat bloomed on Philip’s skin, Clint’s marks flaring, drawing energy. Natasha stopped and looked at her wrist, the skin reddening. Static flared between Philip’s fingers and danced along the edge of the shield Natasha was still carrying.

_“Trust the bond,” the blonde said. “Together, you can fly.”_

He was running before he realized what he was doing, sprinting along the slippery path to get a better vantage point. Stomach churned as he kept seeing the image from his dream; magic trailed behind him and he didn’t have to look to know the others were following close on his heels. As he got to where the stream took off from the pool down the slope, he stopped and turned, shading his eyes with his hand and straining to see the top of the atoll. Colors bled over the edge, clashing and circling each other, purple and green and red and yellow. The wind carried the sound of distant voices, rocks skittered down the side of the cliff face then Clint jumped off the edge, spread his arms and began to fall.

Fear squeezed Philip’s chest; he had only seconds to act as Clint plummeted towards the rock. Eyes firmly fixed on Clint, he lifted his hands up, palms towards the sky, and pushed. Power rushed out like wind, catching Clint and slowing his fall, buying them time. Planting his feet firmly, Philip opened all the doors, dropped every barrier and reached out. He could hear Clint’s thoughts, faint on the edges of his mind, so he pressed onward.

A hand touched his shoulder and pushed him a little closer to Clint. Then another and another and another and another, each one building Philip up until he slipped inside Clint’s mind, their souls joining into a seamless whole. The entirety of Clint’s experiences flashed before him as Philip’s did for Clint in only a heartbeat and then they were hovering, closer to the ground than was comfortable.

*Loki’s up there* Clint warned. *I need to get back.*

 *I don’t know if I can …* Philip began, but a blue surge flowed through the connection, wrapping around them and suddenly Clint laughed out loud. They were flying, up and over the lip of the cliff where an astonished trio watched with open mouths.

“What the …” The Red Knight shouted. Tarleton had gotten up and he drew his weapon. A bolt of energy flew their way; Clint hummed a series of notes and Philip filled them with protection. The bolt fizzled short of reaching them.

“Fine.” Tarleton took two steps and aimed at the people below. Before Clint or Philip could shout a warning, the Lord fired a series of bolts. But Natasha was already standing in front of Philip’s body, shield held high, the others behind her. The blasts bounced off the silver circle; with a flick, she threw it and it flew true, hitting Tarleton’s wrist, knocking the weapon from his hand. The metal contraption tumbled out and down to the ground.  The Red Knight’s arrows fell short and he cursed, face red with his anger. Loki, however, stayed mounted, watching the proceedings.

“We have a message for you,” Clint said. “There is no way you can succeed. Even if you bring your armies and they might defeat the peoples of the Midlands, you won’t win.”

“You are nothing,” the Red Knight shouted. “A handful of oddities cannot stop us.”

“If we can’t, we’ll damn well avenge this world.” As Clint spoke, Philip called the power and let it spin above his palm. “And we’ll be coming for you … unless your master takes care of you first. Now, go away. We have things to do.”

He tossed the glowing sphere like it was a child’s ball; it grew until it engulfed the three figures and flashed and then the Red Knight and Tarleton were gone. Loki however was still there, a shimmer of green around him. He began to clap.

“Excellent! You have far exceeded my expectations. Full integration so soon after bonding. The strongest mage in ages, just as I predicted. And your motley band is coming along nicely,” he drawled.

“What is your angle?” Clint asked; Philip was just as confused by the Prince’s action.

“Why, to get the best for myself, of course. Mark my words, I will get what I want.” He smiled at them both as if they were the best of friends. “Please send Sleipnir home with my brother. I do miss her companionship.” He turned and rode back into the woods at a leisurely pace, ignoring them.

*He is crazier than a bag of cats,* Clint opined. Philip completely agreed; he was feeling the drain of maintaining the spell, so Clint flew down and landed next to the others. With a jolt, Philip was back in his body; only Clint’s strong arms kept him from sinking into a heap on the ground.

“We need to find Jessica and Kevin,” was the first thing Clint said. “He’s hurt.”

“They’re not far,” Rodriquez said, pointing to the east. “But there are wargs between them and us, four or so.”

A silence followed that pronouncement then Carol said, “Later. I know. Big Brawny here and I can handle them. The caves on the cliff face are defensible; wait there for us to come back.”

“Brawny?” Clint asked, looking over at Bruce.

“Not Bruce,” the Berserker answered then he winked at Carol. “Let’s go. I can handle this, but the Captain is welcome to tag along.”

Philip watched them go, surprised once again by the Berserker. “I assumed he wouldn’t speak, much less have a sense of humor,” he said to Clint.

“That,” Clint said, “was flirting.”

“Maybe he’s more than just Bruce’s anger?” Natasha suggested. She was beginning to flag, the signs clear of her waning energy.

“Let’s get up the path and into the main cavern,” Clint said. “Then we can talk. Carol’s right; there could be more revenants and wargs around, assuming the spell is still in effect. Or the terrible trio could come back.”

Without being told, Rodriquez offered an arm to Philip, letting Clint follow behind Natasha, knowing that the red head would resist any help. Clint wouldn’t bother to ask if she needed a hand; he’d just do it and Natasha would accept it. Despite the exhaustion sapping his strength, Philip made it up under his own steam, entering the small complex of rooms. Clint called a halt in what was obviously the biggest space. They took two bed rolls and made a comfortable spot against the wall near the rough fire pit. Philip didn’t argue, sliding down the wall and extending his legs out on the blanket, taking the jerky Clint pressed into his hands and sips of water from the canteen. It was a different matter to get Natasha to admit her tiredness.

“You fell, broke your arm, fought a living legend, caught another’s shield, and then used magic to protect everyone. Sit down before you fall down,” Philip ordered.

She blinked at him and Philip thought he’d pushed too far, but her shoulders fell and she took the other bedroll, reaching out her arm towards him as she settled. “Pushy. Been taking lessons from Clint, haven’t you?” Her voice was a little shaky from the encroaching exhaustion, and her eyes showed her worry.

“There’s some supplies back in one of the small caves,” Rodriquez said, jerking her head towards the way they’d come. She was smart enough to see that Natasha needed time to process what had happened. “I’ll see what I can scavenge and keep an eye out for Carol and the others. And when we’re all back, can we talk about what’s happening and why I know where people and things are?”

“We are definitely having that conversation,” Clint promised her.

Once Ada left the room, Clint sat beside Philip, close enough so he could lean into Clint’s touch. Clint’s hand on his thigh did more to calm him than anything else. Philip took the hand Natasha offered – tiny pulses of red and purple passed through their palms – and turned to look at the red marks on her wrist. The impression of fingers was vivid against her pale skin.

“Does it hurt?” Clint asked. Sharing their memories while joined made explanations unnecessary.

“Not now. It burned when it happened, but it was excruciating when Barnes touched the shield and then when I did. While you were flying together … and that’s a very strange sentence I’d never thought I’d say … it was a low level ache.”  Her emerald eyes turned up to Philip, looking for guidance. “What does it mean?”

“I think …” Could it really be true? Philip wasn’t sure, but there was no way to hide the possibility. “I think it’s a bonding mark.”

“With Barnes?” Clint was incredulous, but Natasha seemed resigned. She’d already figured it out.

“He was taken aback when it happened, but there’s no other explanation. Even that one defies the stories,” Philip said.

“He’s dead, though, right, and under a spell?” Clint asked.

“No, he’s not.” Natasha sounded sure of herself. “I think I woke him up, me and the shield. He felt … cloudy? All covered in gauze that hid his true self, if that makes any sense.”

“You sensed him?” Philip thought about that. “Maybe there’s magic at work keeping him from remembering who he is.”

“Excuse me, but thousands of years here. How could he be alive?” Clint covered both Philip’s and Natasha’s hand with his own and warmth flooded up Philip’s arm. Natasha visibly relaxed. “We’re talking about a character from tales and legends surviving centuries. But it does make sense that Nat would hold out for one of the best fighters in history.”

The humor lightened the mood further, and Natasha wrinkled her nose Clint’s way. “Well, of course. No one around now who’s worth my time since you preferred men and then snapped up Philip.”

“The Sleeper. That’s what they called him. If he were put to sleep for years at a time …” Philip was really just thinking out loud rather than offering answers. “He said he’d done things for his new master. Maybe he woke him when the occasion called for it, kept him obedient through the geas and used his skill.”

“And now whoever this mystery sorcerer is has Loki, the Red Knight, Lord Tarleton, and Barnes working for him?” Clint asked. “He’d have to be tremendously powerful, wouldn’t he? And have been around for centuries, biding his time.”

“Or she,” Natasha injected, pulling her hand away and stretching out on the blanket. She shrugged out of her vest and doubled it up to use as a pillow, her eyelids starting to droop.

“What?” Clint replied, confused.

“Could be a woman. Don’t assume the mastermind’s male. Peggy Carter was a powerful mage in her own right, remember?” Natasha stopped talking to yawn. “You two should know that by now.”

Indeed they should; they were surrounded by strong women capable of anything.  “Very true,” Philip agreed.

“Male or female, I’ll give you that point. But my question is how can Natasha be bonded to Barnes? He’s already bonded to Rogers, isn’t he? I’ve never heard of a bonded having another after his first one dies.” Clint’s words chilled Philip because he was right; bondeds rarely out lived each other and the assumption was that a bond was not just for life, but exclusive even beyond. Thus the fable of Orpheus and Eurydice.

“Neither you nor I believe Rogers is dead, not exactly.” There. Philip had said it out loud, the crazy notion that he’d been keeping to himself. “I believe if we find the five items, then we’ll find Rogers. He wants us to find him. Why else does keep appearing to me, telling me what to do?”

“If this master sorcerer can keep Barnes asleep, why couldn’t someone be keeping Rogers on ice somewhere? Hell, it’s insane to think, but less than three months ago I’d have said flying and lifting rocks with bare hands and berserkers were nothing but stories.” Clint said. He was warm and Philip found himself relaxing against his husband, his need to talk being overtaken by a lethargy in his bones.

“Don’t tell anyone else,” Natasha said, her voice nothing more than a whisper. “About the invisibility. Better if few know. It will be more useful that way. I’ll tell Carol and Jessica. And Bruce … or the Berserker … already knows. What are we going to call him? Never mind, Carol will come up with something …” Eyes closed then opened then closed again.

“Do you think it’s the Red Sorcerer?” Clint gave voice to one of Philip’s nightmare scenarios. “If Rogers and Barnes are around …”

“… maybe he is too?” If true, that was one of the most terrifying realities Philip could imagine. The Red Sorcerer was the villain of all villains in the legends, nigh on unstoppable; only the combined might of all the heroes of that age managed to bring his plans to a halt. And then, the costs were high. Philip shuddered at the very idea; all but a handful of those earlier warriors and mages … real people he had to remember … had died tragic and violent deaths. Was that what they were letting themselves in for now? “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

Clint’s fingers were tracing a pattern on Philip’s sleeve; somehow Clint’s arm was around him, holding him tight. “We’ll find all of Rogers’ armor, find the others who are out there. We’ll figure it out. You can rest now. I’ve got you.”

_Bitter wind tore at his clothes and he shuddered as he looked out across the expanse of white ice, snow blowing across the surface of the frozen lake._

_“I tried. He doesn’t think he’s worthy of you anymore.”_

_The blonde was wearing a blue tunic, white star in the middle of his chest, unperturbed by the cold._

_“I know. We’ll change that. Trust the bond.”_

_The cavern was lit by torches but no warmer than the mountains. Atop a marble pedestal lay James Barnes, strands of brilliant white crisscrossing over him._

_“How?” Philip asked the sleeping figure. “How does this work?”_

_Blue eyes open and stared up at him, so much pain that Philip wanted to scream, his voice echoing off the curving roof._

_“She anchors me and thaws him.”_

_The horses wound through the pass, hooves crunching across newly fallen snow, small dots far beneath Philip. Astride the lead horse, a man, red cape flapping behind him, hammer on his hip, looked up and saw._

_“Do you know who you’re fighting?” the man asked, loud voice booming up, cutting through the wind._

_Banking, wings fully extended, Philip saw the Midlands spread beneath him like one of his maps, sparks of energy little beacons of light in infinite colors._

_“We are so having a discussion when I get there, Philip Coulson-Barton,” Darcy said, her arms around his waist, pressed up against him. Her dark hair flowed free and she laughed as they swooped down towards Tarian Castle. “You need to trust yourself more. And Clint? That man is hot. That is all I have to say. You deserve it. Does he have a brother? A friend?”_

_The cave was so high that nothing could reach it, sheer crags around it. They landed on the lip of the opening in a backwash of air._

_“If this is the Red Sorcerer …” Philip whispered to the wind._

_The voice that answered was deep and laced with humor._

_“It isn’t,” said the red dragon. “Trust me on that one.”_

* * *

 

Clint spent the waiting time helping Rodriguez go through the supplies left from the bandits. It had been awhile, but there were still food stuffs that weren’t spoiled and some pots and pans. If they risked a fire, there could be hoe cakes for dinner and some dried vegetables to add to the jerky for stew. They had plenty of fresh water; really this would be an excellent place to rest up while they decided what to do next if the very people after them didn’t already know about it.

Jessica came in first, supporting Johnson who was bandaged and still very much alive. Behind them, Carol was carrying a sleeping Bruce; he’d changed on the way back and promptly fallen unconscious. Being a Berserker drained him to the point of passing out; Bruce soon had his own place near Natasha and Philip. Rodriguez insisted there was no one else nearby, and Carol confirmed that the wargs had gone back to being their animal selves, still dangerous but as likely to run as fight, so Clint agreed they could use a little of the fire wood to make some dinner and warm the hall. Hell, he thought, it wasn’t as if Loki didn’t know where they were. Carol took the first watch, as always, insisting she was fine despite the growing dark circles under her eyes. The others ate in a smaller room, talking about what had happened in hushed tones; Clint filled them in and was happy to hear that the arrow had just missed Johnson’s lung. The wound hurt and would keep him from fighting as he couldn’t raise his arm all the way, but he would live to take apart the time piece that had miraculously survived intact. Rodriguez told the story of Carol and Bruce … the Berserker … fighting in the tunnel, the one piece that Clint was missing of the whole adventure.

After two hours, he ordered Carol to rest with the others, taking his turn in the cave’s mouth. Rodriquez stayed with him since that was the only way Carol would willingly go. Despite everything, Clint had been the one on the receiving end of everyone’s energy and he was still wide awake. As night fell, he noticed that the auras he’d been seeing had faded, Philip’s spell running its course, probably ending when he fell asleep earlier. He and Ada sat in companionable silence, watching the ground below for movement, eyes adjusting to the moonlight. As he gazed out across the tree tops, he focused on the south and the east, towards Barton Manor and the people who waited for news. Nothing but the sounds of forest around them, the wind making the branches sway, a lulling whisper of leaves, a hint of music echoing in harmony.

Philip was hovering just outside of Clint’s conscious mind, awareness stronger since their joining. Worry, even in sleep, brain not completely shut down, Philip was dreaming; Clint wondered if he’d dream next, the twilight connection of images and future events that was becoming familiar. Faint but nearby, he sensed the others: Natasha’s determination, Carol’s strength, Jessica’s loyalty, and Bruce’s quiet intelligence tinged with anger. Still more threads tugged on him if he thought about it, tiny tickles of others out there, so small he couldn’t recognize any of them. The bond drew others in, it seemed, and allowed them to share talents; it was Carol who’d given him the ability to fly briefly, a fact he learned when she landed on the path, a passed out Bruce in her arms. Almost too much to take in, Clint let the new reality of his life fade into the background. His strategy had always been to live for today and it had saved him time and time again. Tomorrow’s problems would be there in the morning; right now needed his attention more.

He lost track of how long he sat there, running various scenarios of what happens next. Get everyone rested, that was the most important item on the agenda, but he knew Philip wouldn’t want to leave those books and other items in the caverns alone for too long, plus there was the very shiny, very powerful shield that was currently leaned up against the wall between Philip and Natasha’s bedrolls to consider. It had an affinity for Nat – bonded with Barnes? Long term problem. Put it away – and Philip had called it, but none of that would stop Loki and the others from trying to take it back. Anywhere they put it would be at risk; the Manor or a cave or Singer’s place would become a target. Which brought an immediate concern: getting back to Singer’s to get their horses and start the process of returning home.

Jessica woke first, insisting that both of them get some rest; Clint was actually starting to feel like he could close his eyes for a few minutes, so he found Philip lying on his back, still deep asleep, and crawled under the blanket, slipping off his boots first, sliding his leg between Philip’s and curling up along his side. As Clint’s head rested in his favorite spot just beneath Philip’s half-turned chin, Philip’s arm snaked around Clint’s waist, his fingers finding the sliver of skin where Clint’s shirt was untucked. Despite all the thoughts bumping around in his mind, Clint was asleep within minutes.

_The deck of the ship rocked beneath his feet, the salty smell of seawater in his nostrils._

_“I have no idea what I’m doing. I could just be making things worse, putting good people in harm’s way.”_

_The man chuckled, bracing a boot on the railing. His dark hair whipped in the wind as the storm approached, lightning dancing from dark clouds to choppy water._

_“Ah, mon ami, you’ve never known. Just muddlin’ through, that’s what we’re all doing. Life’s a gamble, but is the pot worth winning?”_

_He dashed through the doorway just as the first drops hit the ground, the thunder arriving after him._

_“Is it the right thing to do?” he asked._

_Annamarie put her hands on her hips, that familiar exasperation on her face._

_“Of course it is. This is bigger than all of us, Clint Barton. And, heavens above if you ever tell anyone I said this I’ll beat you within an inch of your life, you are the leader they need. Now get your muddy boots out of my clean hallway!”_

_The rain pounded down on the new slate roof, and the hall stayed warm and dry. Clint sat in his chair and watched the benches fill as the smell of Dak’s spicy beef wafted out from the kitchen; beside him, a man with regal bearing and long blonde hair reached for his glass of dark red wine._

_“The battle, while glorious, is not our purpose; companionship, loyalty, love … those are worth fighting for.”_

_Pieces of metal were strewn around the room, piles and piles of trinkets and do-dads that he had no idea what they were. Bigger things, covered by canvas tarps, stood around the room like bulky sculptures with little form. Perched on a stool, head down on the table, pillowed by his arms, a man slept._

_“What is all this?” Clint asked. “What does it mean?”_

_Dark eyes blinked as the man jerked up, his black hair askew and crumbs in his goatee. Metal tools clattered to the floor as he swept his arm out._

_“Mean, how the hell do I know what this means? Usually my nightly visitors give me some cryptic message then pop off. Jarvis! I’m dreaming again!”_

_The string vibrated across his fingers, a deep thrum that matched the hum in his chest. Fletching brushed his cheek as he held ready, sighting down the line of the magical shaft. Red flashed among the black clouds as winds whipped Clint’s cloak, water running down his neck and along the line of his spine._

_“We’re waiting for you.” The little girl had the darkest hair, her olive skinned face turned up towards him._

_“Don’t be too long,” her brother said, hair plastered to his head as he slipped beneath the surface of the water._

_Around him, the storm raged, the worst of its power displayed.  Trees bent beneath the gale as limbs lashed at Clint’s face as he forced his way through the forest._

_“A new age is coming,” the hooded figure stood on the path, unperturbed amidst the tempest. “Finally, the time has arrived.”_

_“We defeated you once. We’ll defeat you again.” Clint planted his feet and drew his sword._

_“Oh, dear boy, you think the Red Sorcerer is back?” A rainbow of light oozed out of edges of the black sleeves as a chuckle emerged from deep inside. “You have much to learn.”_

* * *

 

Warm blanket, quiet room, flickering fire light, and Clint’s slow easy breaths brushing over the shell of his ear … Philip was loathe to move, content and more than a little aroused by Clint’s hand that was resting lightly on his right hip, fingers only inches away from his half-aroused cock.  Opening his eyes, he saw Bruce asleep on the other side of the fireplace, his back to them. Voices filtered in from the next rooms along with the smell of coffee.

Clint shifted, nudging his leg more firmly between Philip’s, bringing their hips closer; the hard ridge of his erection now snug against the small of Philip’s back. Fingers twitched then dipped further, brushing along the line of Philip’s own shaft.

“Here?” Philip asked with the softest whisper.

“Bruce is fast asleep, and everyone else is already up.” Lips nibbled at his ear as Clint’s palm ran along the ridge of his cock. “All you have to do is stay quiet and not cause a storm or anything.”

“You’re the loud one.” Philip sucked in a breath as Clint’s fingers untied his laces. Rolling onto his back, he looked up into those blue-grey eyes. “Clint?”

“Phil.”  Clint made his name an invocation. Lips paid homage to Philip with a sweet kiss. It was like being worshiped; Philip couldn’t help but slide one arm underneath Clint to brush the skin at the small of his back as his other hand grazed along Clint’s arm and up his neck. Slowly, the kiss deepened, but they kept silent, just an occasional sigh as they explored with their hands and lips. Philip’s knee fell to the side, opening him up to Clint’s questing hand. Clint tilted over, his hips hiding their movements from anyone who might come through the doorway.

Two of them under the blanket and yet they were slowly becoming one, merging their souls, joining songs and magic. An intimate union that took no effect on either of their parts, they shared the pleasures they created with their hands and mouths, the way their bodies worked together to build to ecstasy. In his head, Philip could feel what Clint felt, the slow strokes, heat of their bonding marks like phantom hands, the way his cock jumped in Clint’s hands. It was Clint who had to bite back his moan as Philip freed Clint’s cock and matched the same rhythm. He buried his head in the crook of Philip’s neck and covered the skin there with kisses and pants of breath.

Philip couldn’t tell who came first, not that it really mattered; both orgasms rolled through him, one right after the other, exponential bursts of pleasure. But he was learning to control the energy, banking it by sharing with Clint and leaking it out in smaller dribbles towards the others, not enough to overwhelm them or even be noticed. Only the two closest packs lifted off the floor and Philip lowered them with a thought, sitting them down gently.

“Hey,” Clint murmured, lifting his head to look at Philip’s face.

“Hey,” Philip answered, a little drunk on the swirl of emotions and power.

A clatter came from the other room, metal on stone, followed by some quickly hushed cursing.

“We should get up.” Clint glanced over at Bruce who was shifting, starting to come awake. “Lots of decisions to make. Things to do. Places to be. Villains to send packing.”

Philip couldn’t help the goofy smile that spread over his face. “Books to transport.”

“Okay. But then we’re taking some time to ourselves,” Clint agreed. “Hot spring. Hunting lodge. No clothes. You and me.”

“Done,” Philip promised.

* * *

 

“I thought we agreed, no working?”

Clint stood in the doorway, his leather pants unlaced and hanging loose on his hips. Philip couldn’t get over the smooth expanse of chest on display, free from all the scars and remembrances of Clint’s past. The bonding ritual had wiped their bodies clean except for the handprints that sometimes showed in the heat of emotion. He leaned against the jamb and raised an eyebrow at the books Philip had spread out in front of him on the rug.

“You were working,” Philip protested. Clint had gone out to resupply the wood for the fireplaces, putting on his coat and boots for the first time since they’d gotten back in yesterday from the hot spring.

Clint grinned at him. “Brodan brought up a basket of food from his mother. We’ve got shepherd’s pie and fresh bread for dinner. I thought we’d have some of the scones with clotted cream with the tea once the kettle boils.”

He’d married a man who could cook over an open fire and didn’t mind carting firewood. How did that happen? “Sounds perfect. Then you can help go through these? Maybe a fresh set of eyes will make a difference?”

“As much as I hate to admit it, I might need a little rest myself.” He winked as the kettle whistled from the kitchen space of the small lodge. In just a few minutes, he had the tea steeping and brought in a covered basket and small clay dish, placing the tray on the floor. He added two more logs to the fire burning beneath the big stone mantelpiece. Sitting on the rug next to Philip, Clint situated his back against the side of the big bed, feet towards the heat, and patted the space between his open legs. Without a word, Philip scooted over, leaning back along Clint’s chest, bringing the books with him. Warm and cozy, the skin to skin focused Philip’s mind; the spices of the tea and the hint of cinnamon from the scone were stronger in his nose, mingling with the tang of the first snow that clung to Clint.

“What are we looking for?” Clint reached around Philip and picked up one of the books, laying it over their legs and opening it carefully.

“I’m changing tacks.” Philip moved some papers to find the one he wanted. “This is Katherine’s rhyme; I thought I’d start from this direction and look for any mentions of these names. Working on the location of other items isn’t getting us anywhere.”

Absently, he took the tea leaves out and poured the dark fragrant liquid into the two mugs Clint had brought. The hunting lodge didn’t have tea cups or glasses, just solid serviceable dishes which worked just fine for them. It wasn’t as small as Philip had imagined, but then he knew Lords that called twenty room mansions lodges simply because that was where they went to hunt. Built into the side of a mountain, the house had four rooms including a living area large enough for a series of comfortable chairs and a trestle table in the corner near the entrance to the bare bones kitchen. The bedroom back wall was dug into the earth of the hillside; it was big enough for a large bed, a cabinet that housed bedding material and space for a few changes of clothes, a small table and two chairs. The fourth room was an indoor bathing room or antechamber, just of size to put a tub. At the center of the square was a circular stone fireplace with openings in each of the rooms and a shared chimney. It dominated the space and kept the whole lodge warm with an economy of space. A series of little doors opened between rooms into wood storage bins, helping to insulate the whole house. Clint could shut the outer door, filling the bin from outside before he opened any of the doors inside.

“We decided the first verse didn’t we?” Clint took the cup and sipped. “Ah, this is the closest Dax has gotten to the flavor of the island tea.”

Cardamom and cinnamon wafted up with the steam. Philip took a tentative sip; it was dark and flavorful. “Interesting,” he agreed. It would take time to get used to it. “You’re right. The dead are the revenants, the Hawk is you, the Sleeper Barnes and the Mage me. The Soldier could be any number of people. Carol as Captain of the Guard, although she could be the Captain mentioned later, but also Maria Hill or Fury himself. He served in the King’s Army during the last series of skirmishes with the Red Knight. From there it gets more muddled. Spider is plural suggesting more than one, but Wasp? Ant? The Stones singing makes sense now, but who or what is the Voice? Bruce is convinced the Beast is him, but he could be the Scholar. Two becomes three could be marriage and a baby, which lets us out of that equation. Is the Prince Loki? He did flee. From there, I’ve few ideas to work from.”

“I know a gambler,” Clint offered, “but I can’t imagine him this far north. Man would freeze to death and he’s not really the kind who suffers discomfort if he doesn’t have to.”

“We’re all gambling our future.” Philip shook his head at the enormity of what they were trying to do. “There are too many Lords to hazard a guess.”

In the two weeks since they’d found the shield, they’d been so busy that simple conversations were few and far between. Philip had spent most of that time underground, overseeing the removal of the books from their special rooms along with Bobby Singer’s aid.  The question of what to do with the shield was solved by the shield itself. No matter where it was left when they went to bed, it would appear next to either Natasha or Philip in the morning. It definitely had an affinity for the red head over everyone else; Clint claimed it hummed when she was in the room and Philip had seen energy spark from it to her. Burying it or leaving it in a vault was out of the question. Not to mention that Natasha’s friend Missouri’s talent was boosted by proximity to the metal round; she was hard at work with maps, both old and new, narrowing the search parameters for the other parts of the armor.

“Natasha’s one of the spiders, I’d bet.” Clint offered Philip a bit of his scone, spread with the cream. “She used to go by the name Black Widow when we first met.”

He almost choked on the bite as he tried to swallow and talk at the same time. “She’s the Black Widow?”

“You’ve heard of her, I see?” Clint asked with fake innocence but eyes full of mischief.

“She’s legendary at court. Rumor has it she assassinated King Cayman’s royal vizier, not that I disapprove of getting rid of that weasel, he was doing a lot of damage to the country, but he was supposedly impossible to get to.” Philip watched for Clint’s reaction, hoping to gauge whether he was joking or not. All he got was a single uptick of the edges of Clint’s mouth. “Holy gods above, Clint.”

“She does bite, I’m afraid.” Clint casually broke off another bite. “There’s a lot you don’t know about us, about me.”

“You’ll just have to fill me in then,” Philip said then flushed as he realized the implications of his words. “I mean, you can teach me … tell me  ... ah, hell.”

Clint laughed, a low and lovely sound that did things to Philip’s cock still even after three very earth shattering rounds of sex already. “Anytime, Phil. Anytime. Want to trade information for sex? There’s a pole right over there you could tie me up to. I’ll beg pretty for your cock in my mouth.”

“Clint,” Philip couldn’t help but breathe out as Clint wiggled his cock up along Philip’s ass. “You are nothing but temptation, do you know that?”

“Isn’t that my job? To loosen you up until I can slide right in? And yours is to tie me down and make me finish what I start?” Clint’s breath tickled his ear and Philip shivered as his body responded to the images Clint provided.

“I thought you needed a rest,” Philip protested. He was beginning to understand Clint’s desire to go without clothes; the room was already warm before Clint’s hands started wandering over his skin, brushing his nipples until they were hard.

“Doesn’t mean I can’t touch.” Clint brushed his lips along the line of Philip’s neck. “There’s always room for dessert.”

“Ah, so this is a distraction?” As long as they were playing, Philip knew this game. Thing was, he’d found that letting Clint have his way often led to breakthroughs. He might not admit it, but Clint had a point about loosening Philip up.

“This is a honeymoon. I’m thinking we finish these scones, toss on our coats and go out for another dip before we come back and heat up some dinner. We break open the bottle of red wine, and I’ll tell you the true story of how I ended up playing cards with a pirate named Gambit to buy Natasha time to escape.” Clint closed the book and eased it onto the floor.  “We can take three days because there are good people we trust to watch our backs. They’ll handle everything.”

“I know. It’s just … this isn’t over, not by any stroke of the imagination.” That chilled Philip, the worry and fear about what was next, but Clint’s fiery trails he wove with his fingers chased it away.

“This is a lull before the storm,” Clint agreed. “We’re stronger when we take the time to gather our strength, to remember what connects us.”

He was right; Philip relaxed into Clint’s arms, head falling onto Clint’s shoulder. “I could do with another long soak. And you said something about begging?”

“Indeed, I did, my love. Indeed I did.”

* * *

 

“It’s good to know that your Thane has things in hand up North, Nicholas.” King Donaldson waved his empty goblet and a page jumped to fill it from a fresh wineskin. “Too bad that your Philip was already promised to Barton; Loki seemed quite taken with him. But what’s done is done and I can count on you to keep the peace up that way now, so there’s an unseen benefit.”

Yes, Fury thought, that was a less than subtle reminder that he was being held responsible now for a larger area … and would be blamed for any problems that arose. “Coulson is happy with his new husband and doing quite a job of restoring the damage left from the attack two years ago.” Nick needled the King with his own reminder of the failure to aide his thanes. “From what Maria tells me, the two are well matched and very much in lust with each other. That’s a good beginning for a union.”

“Lust is good. Many a marriage is made on much less.” Donaldson tilted his head, his eye following a familiar head of black hair that towered above the other guests in his green royal robes. “And speaking of that … there’s still the offer on the table for an alliance. The Prince has been very gracious in the loss of his first choice; I do not think it would be wise to anger him again, however.”

A cold ball settled in the pit of Nick’s stomach. “And who do you suggest we offer?”

Donaldson smiled that fake smile Nick hated, the one that told him this was all politics and he was going to hate the answer. A pudgy hand with three golden rings landed on Nick’s shoulder.

“Why your Darcy, of course. Such a lively and lovely young woman. She’ll blossom at the Asgardian court.”

~~End Part One~~

Part Two Coming Soon …

“Bonds of Old II: A Voice in the Wilderness”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I know the Hulk usually doesn't speak and certainly doesn't flirt. I'm taking artistic license there. I like the idea that Bruce's Berserker is more than just his anger, it's his passions that he's repressed coming to the forefront. Trust me on this ... it will make for some really great scene once his bonded shows up. ;D
> 
> Yeah, that's Gambit from the X-Men, just in case you didn't recognize him from all the earlier hints. I'm not exactly light handed about the Pirate King. Gambit as a pirate is just damn sexy. 
> 
> And, hell yes, dragons!
> 
> If you're puzzling through who all the people are named in the nursery rhyme, first let me say it's damn difficult to rhyme those verbs! Secondly, don't forget that Bobby Singer made an appearance, so Supernatural characters are fair game (Hint, Hint). I haven't forgotten the Men of Letters .... and where there's MOL there's ... ;)


End file.
